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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25800886">Angels</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvaLark/pseuds/EvaLark'>EvaLark</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera &amp; Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Addiction, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Violinist Christine, Younger Erik, canon-compliant non-graphic character death, decently long timeline, he's a star and she's a fan, indie alt rock, kinda slow burn, mention of suicide, stalking because of course, sweet yet gutsy Christine, this isn't as dark as the last few tags might make it seem, very AU but you'll recognize things here and there I promise</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 10:21:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>42,553</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25800886</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvaLark/pseuds/EvaLark</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When 21-year old indie artist Erik Devereux lets friend-turned-manager Nate Khan drag him to a karaoke bar to celebrate a week of abstinence, the last thing he expects is a voice that gives him an euphoria like no drug he's ever tried before. He's addicted, but there's a lot he doesn't know about Christine Daae - not yet. </p><p>A modern day AU following EC as they fall in and out of each other's lives, and in again. ALW with nods to Kay and Leroux.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Christine Daaé/Erik | Phantom of the Opera</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>185</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Box 5, Pt. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">March 2017  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>Box 5 is full tonight; it’s spring break in New York, and Erik is sitting by the corner of the bar farthest from the spotlit stage, glaring at the strobe lights blinding him in regular twenty-second intervals. Cold condensation coats his hand from the glass of whiskey he’s nursing as meager compensation, wet and uncomfortable, and he halfheartedly squeezes the glass in his hand, daring it to break. </p><p>It does not. Pity.</p><p>A seat over from him, Nate is having the time of his life, Erik notes with admiration, annoyance, and a little bit of resentment as he watches his friend flirt aggressively with the blonde swirling her strawberry daiquiri in one slender, manicured hand. Something about his Iranian friend’s darker skin and green eyes tends to drive the girls crazy - not that Erik isn’t capable of keeping up. No, he’s self-conscious enough to know exactly how he can affect people when he’s in the right mood, and experienced enough to know exactly what he’s capable of. Just because he’s gotten tired of charming pretty girls into forgetting the mask under the influence of his voice and hands and tongue doesn’t mean he doesn’t still indulge in the occasional meaningless hookup, after concerts when he’s still riding the high of the performance, or after sitting through unspeakably boring contract meetings that he’s positive he doesn’t need to actually be at because Nate is his manager for a <em> reason. </em></p><p>Erik glances over at the manager in question now. A brunette has joined the blonde and Nate is clearly having a good time, grinning, charming as ever. He glances over at Erik with a questioning look in his eyes, an invitation; Erik dismisses it with a glare, turning his gaze back down to the drink in his hand, the amber liquid reflecting and refracting speckles of blue, pink, violet from the rotating lights.</p><p>He knocks back most of the whiskey with a slight wince, careful to avoid the edge of his mask.</p><p>One of the guitarists is riffing in the background as band members filter on and off the stage, the lead singer - the brunette in the slashed-up crop top and too-short shorts - crouching at the edge of the stage, talking to someone in the thin crowd up front, giving him and everyone else in the room an ample view of her glistening cleavage.</p><p>Barring the singer, Erik likes Box 5’s band better than most; they’ve backed him up well enough for the several live, scheduled performances he’s given on that very stage as <em> The Phantom </em>, but tonight the random, wandering strains of electric guitar over the general turbulence of the club do nothing but grate on Erik’s nerves. He can’t seem to stop his fingers from twitching and wraps them around his now-empty glass as a solution.</p><p>Give up drugs for a week, and go out and get drunk to celebrate. Baby steps, Erik. Baby steps.</p><p>“What’d you think of the last performance, Erik?” Nate shouts over the din of the musicians twiddling around onstage. “Pretty good, huh?”</p><p>“He was fucking terrible,” Erik immediately rejoins, grimacing at the memory as he warily watches the next impromptu performer climb the steps to the stage. A teenage girl with stick-thin legs and a red scarf, looking shy, determined, and terrified all at once as a darker-skinned girl with craggy blond highlights cheers her on from the side.</p><p>Amateurs, all of them - wannabe singers egged up on stage by their drunk friends for temporary glory and a good laugh. </p><p>“This is ridiculous,” he growls, downing the rest of his whiskey. He’s antsy and uncomfortable and - worst of all - <em> bored </em>, itching for the high he’d just managed to go one week without. Pathetic. He slams the glass down on the table, hopping up and wincing at the confirmation that he’s had enough alcohol to feel it. “Nate, man, I’m out. Enjoy the next atrocity of what they call a musical performance.”</p><p>“Erik, wait!” A sharp tug on his shirtsleeve, and he quickly shakes himself free but turns to face the other man anyway, affronted scowl fixed firmly in place.</p><p>“<em>What? </em>” he snaps, everything he wants to hurl at his annoyance of an (only) friend hopefully showing plainly and dangerously on his face. Or the half of it Nate can see, anyway. “What do you want from me, Nate?”</p><p>He can see the moment his friend capitulates and he feels guilty, but only for a second. Not his fault if Nate was stupid enough to think he’d have a good time mingling with the masses and getting drunk at a <em> karaoke bar </em> while riding out the last stages of goddamn withdrawal.</p><p>“I’ll see you back in the apartment, okay?” Nate states calmly, his eyes broadcasting the message they both know Erik doesn’t want to hear aloud. <em> And you better not go fuck everything up and get high again, you hear? Or we both know I’ll beat your ass. </em></p><p>With a terse nod, Erik turns on his heel, waving the bartender over to settle the bill. He tosses him enough to cover his own drink as well as probably at least another three for Nate - as annoyed as he is, he’ll spend a lifetime thanking the guy for basically saving his life, just without actually saying the words - and he waits impatiently, tapping a rhythm out on the sticky wood of the bartop, eyes settling languidly over the spotlit stage again.</p><p>The girl is at the mic now, clearly nervous, overly black-lined eyes shifting over the crowd as pale fingers twist in the frayed fringes of a navy blue blouse before hooking tentatively in the pockets of her black jeans. Her face is ghostly pale in the glare of the spotlight and the tattered red scarf wrapped haphazardly around her neck does nothing to help.</p><p>He almost feels sorry for her; she looks terrified, honestly - and how old is she, anyway? Probably one of the many spring-breaking high schoolers that seem to litter the place tonight, flaunting both their fake IDs and the sense of careless, easy <em> entitlement </em> that Erik automatically hates.</p><p>The opening strains of the song she’s apparently going to sing filter through the speakers and Erik starts in surprise; it’s one of <em> his</em>.</p><p>“Here ya go, man,” and the bartender is pushing his change into his hand, a single paper bill and a heavy jingle of coins, and Erik shrugs off his momentary surprise in favor of making for the exit.</p><p>Not a chance in hell he’s going to listen to some shrinking high schooler butcher one of his songs, not tonight; a better night and he might’ve stayed to cringe or mock, maybe share a laugh with Nate, but he’s already on edge and he needs to go home and either drink himself into oblivion or see if a few hours hammering away at the piano will ease his rapidly ballooning desire to go out and hunt for the fix he feels himself desperately craving. Nate had cleaned out the apartment, of course, <em> mostly </em>, but in this part of town it wouldn’t take more than half an hour to find a dealer who’d be more than willing to make a quick buck.</p><p>So he slips through the crowd, weaving around tables and couches, setting his jaw as a few heads turn to stare at the mask. It’s familiar and not necessarily unkind; thousands have seen his stage mask, after all, and Nate’s actually started teasing him about it - “did you know, Erik, that you’ve made yourself the subject of many a teenage girl’s wet dream?” “What the fuck, Nate?” “It’s sexy. They find the mask sexy.” “Shut <em> up </em> ” - but it’s still unwanted, uncomfortable, the curious weight of strangers’ eyes incredibly heavy whenever he hasn’t utterly lost himself in the lights and music and adrenaline of a live performance. Plus, the half mask he usually wears when he isn’t performing somehow makes matters worse; the sight of the good half of his face makes people wonder what the hell could possibly merit covering the other half.</p><p><em> Well, to hell with them </em>. He feels himself automatically straightening to his full six-foot-four in rigid defiance as he continues to stride toward the door - he’ll be out of here soon enough.</p><p>It’s a bit quieter here in the back of Box 5 and he can hear the music swell from the closest speaker, keyboard and twanging guitars, chords he wrote himself and knows like the back of his hand - ah, it’s one of his more recent songs. He’ll play it first thing when he gets home, perhaps, and already he’s begun tapping out the rhythm between middle finger and thumb.</p><p>Ten more steps to the door, swerving around a couple embracing sloppily in the dim backlight of this part of the club - another chord progression, the comforting trill of his fingers from muscle memory as his legs carry him unerringly to the exit. Just six more steps, five more steps, four -</p><p>And then her voice hits him, low and sultry and a little unsure, but with all the numbing force of a tidal wave… </p><p>And Erik forgets how to breathe.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This is the start to my first fanfic, ever, and I'm pretty damn excited to get this really going. I've loved Phantom for a while, but got back into it after watching the streamed 25th Anniversary version back in April (the only positive outcome of this pandemic) and have been obsessed again ever since. The idea for this fic came about thanks to a lil piece of fanart I did featuring a young, modern, and tattooed Erik and a violinist Christine who also *happens* to sing...it got me thinking about how their story would've gone in the modern day, if Erik was a little more human and Christine a little more multidimensional and world-weary, and bam this fic was born. I'm going off the ALW stage version (my fav) but I've read both Kay and Leroux, so expect to see hints of those sprinkled in as well (including Nate Khan, my version of everyone's beloved bestie Nadir).</p><p>I'm planning on making this a decently long fic featuring both Erik and Christine's POVs, with the possibility of two tiny side-fics exploring their backgrounds. This was quite a concise start but I have chunks already written here and there...can't promise a regular posting schedule, at least not yet (life is a bit turbulent right now, so to speak), but hoping you'll join me for the ride anyway. I love POTO with all my heart - it's helped me in so many ways, and after years of dabbling in original fic I'm so excited to finally get involved with the wonderfulness that is the POTO fandom.</p><p>If you've made it this far, thank you and I'd love to hear your thoughts on this first tiny chapter :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Box 5, Pt. 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Once, Erik had begrudgingly agreed to sit through a little informal concert of sorts for Nate’s dad Nadir, in honor of the ex-cop’s 50th birthday. He’d snickered along with Nate at some of the blatantly untalented contributions - one aunt’s tone-deaf rendition of <em> He’s a Jolly Good Fellow </em> had proven highly, <em> highly </em>amusing - and he’d fought the urge to simply get up and leave the room during the other so-called performances, a diverse repertoire ranging from Iranian folk songs to sickeningly generic top 50 pop ballads. </p><p>Oh, the horror.</p><p>There were ten or so people who had volunteered to serenade the rather large group of party guests - including Erik himself as the last act, after Nate had nagged him about it the entire week leading up to the party. Of all the performers, only Rookheeya Khan had actually earned Erik’s silent appreciation as her undeniably sweet voice - if not a little too soft, too restrained - crooned its way through what Nate had informed Erik was a classic Persian love song. </p><p>"That was the song she sang to him at their wedding," Nate had whispered, leaning over. "It's his favorite."</p><p>"Mm." </p><p>Erik had been with the family for almost a year already, but he'd gained a newfound respect for Nate’s mother that night.</p><p>He’d only had the chance to hear her sing one more time after that, harmonizing softly to the selections of the radio station filling the car the first (and only) time he’d agreed to accompany the Khans on their annual ski trip up in Vermont. She’d been diagnosed with Stage Four breast cancer right after the trip and passed away five months later, leaving behind a grieving husband, too-young daughter, and a teenage son disenchanted with the excessive drugs, sex, and debauchery that he and Erik had once partaken of, recklessly and gleefully, in the seedier parts of New York. </p><p>(Erik had mourned, too… but he’d refused to feel any qualms about what he did with his own time and with his own body. He’d already gotten his own apartment by that point, after all, and as a rule he answered to no one but himself - and very occasionally to Nate, now self-appointed proxy for Erik’s apparently malfunctioning sense of moderation.)</p><p>Point being, with the exception of Nate’s dead mother, Erik had never, ever encountered a singing voice that he’d actually <em> liked</em>. </p><p>He’d shot down Nate’s idea of a collaboration the instant it was brought up, right after the release of his first album.</p><p>"Fuck off, Nate."</p><p>"But, Erik, just think about it! You could sing, or do the arrangement and backup track - you know you'd be good at it. It could be a hit! Think of Jack U and Bieber, or Nicky Jam and Enrique whats-his-name, or -"</p><p>"Yes, because said artists are perfectly reflective of <em>my</em> particular style. Nate, I bow to your superior musical acumen."</p><p>"I know what your style is, Erik. Your album just got gold, for fuck's sake-"</p><p>"Then drop it." And Nate had.</p><p>A collaborator. The idea had always been completely ludicrous. </p><p>Readily self-acknowledged narcissistic tendencies aside, there was always the issue of his mask… but the bottom line was that no other voice had ever given Erik as good a high as he got when absorbed in his own music, in the privacy of his recording studio or in the dangerous exhilaration of a live performance.</p><p>Or in a daze of chemical bliss from the barrel of a syringe… </p><p>But here and now, frozen in place by the garishly neon-outlined exit of Box 5, Erik listens to the voice of an angel - unable to think, unable to breathe, unable to do anything but turn around and gawk at the slip of a girl singing his song on that spotlit stage.</p><p>Her voice is <em> stunning</em>.</p><p>The song is one of his darker, grittier ones but the clarity of her voice is obvious, even with the huskiness of the notes at the lower end of her register - the honeyed velvet of the slower syllables and the thrilling inflection of the faster ones, words spilling from her throat in a gorgeous timbre that settles under his skin, shoots through his veins, thrums hot and electrifying in his blood. Her voice is raw, sure, and so clearly young; it’s a far cry from the unbridled vibrato of opera, or even the precision of pop, but none of that matters because it’s by far the most thrilling thing Erik has ever heard in his life.</p><p>He could probably listen to it forever, he thinks fleetingly, and be happy.</p><p>He finds himself memorizing every detail of the girl that he can from this distance - her slim, awkwardly jointed figure, long neck and sharp limbs and the faintest curve of cleavage above the rim of an electric blue blouse. Plain nose and full, glossy lips, slender face, dark eyes, straight chocolate-brown hair spilling over her shoulders in sheets. The way her eyes flutter closed when she riffs on the higher notes and the way her lips turn up at the corners in a small, almost sly smile when she makes her way through the lower notes of each verse - the words he’d written, sung, and recorded only a few months ago transfigured, unrecognizable, <em> exquisite </em> in that lovely, lovely voice.</p><p>Erik closes his eyes and lets the music wash over him.</p><p>It feels almost like bliss, like intoxication, heady and potent and profound in the alluring darkness of his lyrics and the purity of the voice bringing them to life, seraphic and seductive by turns. If Box 5 were a temple, Erik would be a worshiper; if he were able to <em> move </em> he’d be walking over to bask in her presence, to see if he could get close enough to pick up the natural sound of her voice without the filter of the mic. Instead he tips his head back and exhales, ragged and low; he’s got no earthly idea what the hell is happening to him but Erik knows without a shade of doubt that he’s hooked, lost and gone in the splendor of her voice; that he would do practically anything for this skinny teenage girl with an angel’s throat… </p><p>God, he doesn’t even know her <em> name.</em></p><p>Far too soon, the song is over and he opens his eyes to find the girl looking positively radiant, flushed, apparently bashful and surprised at the raucous applause she receives from the half-inebriated clubgoers. She gives an awkward little curtsy before slipping offstage, her friend latching onto her at the bottom of the steps; Erik watches transfixed as the two jump up and down in excitement, eventually mingling with the outer fringes of the crowd, the ends of her red scarf swinging all the way.</p><p>Erik finds himself beaming.</p><p>Her obvious joy, those frankly adorable little jumps - it’s such a contrast from the style of the song she’d elected to sing that he can’t help but wonder what kind of person she is, what kind of personality she has, how long she’s been singing for, if she’s fully self taught like him. Her favorite genre, why she started listening to his music, who she is and where she’s from and how the hell she sounds so goddamn <em> right </em> when every other voice he’s ever heard has sounded at least a bit <em> wrong </em> -</p><p>“Erik?”</p><p>He turns to find Nate staring at him quizzically. </p><p>“You alright, man? You got a little something on your face there.”</p><p>“What?” </p><p>He reaches up to touch the exposed corner of his curved lips and immediately sets his face in a scowl.</p><p>"Oh, don't get rid of it on my account," Nate teases. "Say, what happened to going home? I thought you'd had it for tonight."</p><p>“I -” but Erik can’t even begin to describe the past five - six? seven? ten? - minutes, not when his mind is blanking and the words he’s looking for are dancing somewhere up in the stratosphere, miles out of reach. He settles for glaring instead. “I was delayed.”</p><p>“Oh. Well, good. You heard that last performance then, right? That was something else - and from your last album, too!”</p><p>He ignores Nate in favor of peering over the guy’s shoulder at the dance floor. A flash of red and he sees her on the very edge of the open area, dancing a little awkwardly, seemingly unsure of herself - a study of contrasts with her friend’s confident, gracefully gyrating body. </p><p>Again, he wonders - who is she, and of all the songs in the world, why did she sing <em>his</em>?</p><p>“Erik?” Nate’s saying, looking concerned, and Erik tears his eyes away from the puzzle of a girl, focusing them resolutely instead on the play of the strobe lights spinning across the ceiling, a strange juxtaposition of deep red velvet drapings - strategically concealing the undecorated industrial beams and rafters - and strands of snowy LED stars, glittering like no one’s business, making his vision swim with sparkles of lambent light.</p><p>God, he needs a drink.</p><p>Without another word Erik turns and stalks off in the direction of the bar, a bewildered Nate trailing after him.</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>It takes ten minutes and a row of shots for Erik to feel some semblance of normality again, and with it a somewhat shaky plan of action.</p><p>“Nate, can you do me a favor?”</p><p>Nate eyes him over the edge of his glass; Erik doesn’t miss the gleam that slips into his friend’s eyes, inquisitive and more than a little surprised, but undeniably pleased. “Anything, just say the word,” Nate drawls pleasantly, with just a hint of sarcasm.</p><p>Erik ignores it. “I need you to talk to the girl who just sang."</p><p>Nate stares at him. “What?”</p><p>“The last performer. You pointed her out yourself.”</p><p>“What - <em> why?  </em>Where even is she?”</p><p>“She hasn’t left the club.” Erik would know; he’s kept an eye on her even while downing shots, making sure she and her friend are still dancing away to the beat of the music that’s really picked up in the past ten minutes. </p><p>It seems that people are smart enough to not want to follow an act like hers. Thank God for small favors.</p><p>“I see,” Nate says slowly, tilting his head, his face stretching into a knowing grin. “Don Juan finally making a comeback, is he? About time.”</p><p>“No, and shut up. That reference is getting old."</p><p>“Well, excuse me - is <em> Erik Devereux </em> finally gonna interact with members of the opposite gender again? Hallelujah,” Nate deadpans, pressing on, languidly waving his drink around in one hand. “Honestly, man, I know what happened with Lucy was shitty, but it’s about time you lightened the fuck up and moved on.”</p><p>“<em>Nate</em>,” Erik growls, clenching his fists.</p><p>Nate blinks, then looks apologetic. “Wait, shit, man, I’m sorry. I guess I’m more drunk than I thought.”</p><p>“Damn right you are.”</p><p>"But you know I have a point.”</p><p>Erik frowns.</p><p>It’d been almost a year since he’d last spoken to Lucy, since he’d taken her to bed and then watched their weirdly casual summer fling end before his eyes with her fingers on his mask, and then her hasty exit from the room and from his life. She’d reached out to apologize after, said she was sorry and she’d gotten over it and it was just a cruel thing to shock a girl like that in the middle of sex but Erik had ignored her, deciding against pointing out that <em> she’d </em> been the one to remove his mask. Nonetheless, it had hurt -</p><p>Flashes of black hair and lust-dazed eyes widening with acute fear lance across Erik’s vision and he forces them back, swallowing, focusing instead on Nate, now noticing the wicked gleam in his best friend’s eye that tells him in no uncertain terms that he is hoping that Erik will, at long last, to put it crudely, get it.  </p><p>Erik groans and flips him off.</p><p>“Glad to see you back, my old friend,” Nate snarks, looking smug. Erik wants to punch the self-satisfied grin right of his friend’s face.</p><p>“Nate, she’s<em> young</em>. You saw her.”</p><p>"You're twenty-one, Erik. Hardly ancient."</p><p>"She looks like a fucking high schooler. I'm not a pervert<em> . </em>"</p><p>"As long as it’s legal, you don't see me having an issue with that."</p><p>"Yeah, maybe I have a little more self-respect than you do."</p><p>"Self-respect? You? Ha, ha."</p><p>"You're one to talk," Erik spat. "You were the one flirting with every pair of boobs in New York weeks after you promised your dear old <em> dad </em> you'd reform."</p><p>Nate stiffens and Erik knows he's gone way too far. "I'm sorry," he sighs, and he is; he knows full well how hard it had been for Nate to regain some semblance of his playful, lighthearted self after Rookheeya’s death, almost two years ago now. Erik had been there, after all - watched his friend claw his way to some balance between the old Nate and the new, more responsible Nate, a more mature son and brother and friend.</p><p>"Erik, I'm just messing with you," Nate says seriously after a moment, brows furrowed. "You know I don't mean it. I've been… you know I like to have fun. I don’t mean anything by it.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Silence falls between the two, punctuated by the noise of the club and the senseless, pounding beat of popular electronic dance music. Erik struggles to think, struggles to rein in his rampaging thoughts.</p><p>“Anyway, Nate, I don’t need to be interested in her, not when she sings like <em> that</em>.” </p><p>Like one of God’s angels one moment, then the devil’s daughter the very next; enthralling him, seducing him with his very own words without even trying.</p><p>How dare she, honestly.</p><p>“Ah.” Nate’s eyes flood with understanding, and then that weird excitement he gets when he’s in manager mode. “You mean - professionally. A professional interest. A collab. Erik, this is fucking amazing.”</p><p>He doesn’t respond. Now that it’s actually been said aloud, Erik can’t stop thinking about the possibilities - her voice and his music, or just her solo - maybe a light acoustic, or both of their voices combined… </p><p>Nate’s fingers snap in front of his voice. “So, as I was saying - as your full-time manager and part-time wingman, what would you like me to do?”</p><p>Two minutes later, Erik is sending Nate off with loose instructions to get a name and contact info before slumping against the bar, savoring the recollection of her voice, feeling as anxious as he had the first time he’d climbed up on stage behind a mask.</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>Less than five minutes later, Nate emerges from the press of bodies on the dance floor, looking a little flustered. </p><p>“Well?” Erik snaps as Nate slides onto the red-leathered bar stool, leaning back in exaggerated exhaustion.</p><p>“<em>Well</em>.” Nate waves the bartender over, takes his time ordering another drink. “I talked to the friend. Didn’t get a name or number or anything -”</p><p>
  <em> “What?” </em>
</p><p>“- said she had a boyfriend, wasn’t interested, yada yada yada -”</p><p>“Nate, I swear to God -”</p><p>“What I <em> did </em> get,” Nate continues cheekily, “was a promise that they’d be back tomorrow night. And the rest of this week. Blondie was adamant about it. Said she’d always told her friend that she was meant for the stage and that she didn’t think she could keep her from coming back here again if she tried - at least, not before school starts up again, for them.” Nate wrinkles his nose. “I think you’re right about them being young, by the way - I was definitely getting high school vibes from her.”</p><p>“Her?”</p><p>“Blondie, not the singer. I didn’t talk to the singer.”</p><p>“Oh. Did you get a name?”</p><p>“No, I told you -”</p><p>“Not the friend, the <em> singer.</em>”</p><p>“No, I didn’t. But what’s the big deal? You’ll come back tomorrow, you’ll swoon at her feet, you’ll approach her and introduce yourself and explain that you love her - ahem, her voice - and you would like to get her in front of a mic in a recording studio, pronto. Easy.”</p><p>Erik is positive that’s not the way he’ll go about it, but he nods anyway. </p><p>“What would I do without you,” he quips, grabbing Nate’s drink and finishing it off, only to grimace at the taste of lager.</p><p>“Hey!”</p><p>The next night, he drags Nate with him to Box 5 as soon as karaoke hour begins at eight.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for the delay - hope the length of this chapter makes up for it. You won't see Christine's POV for a few chapters yet but we're getting there, promise :)</p><p>Included a little bit of backstory with this one...let me know what you guys think!</p><p>Also - not to shamelessly self-pub, or anything, but if anyone is interested in the single piece of fanart that inspired this story, you can find it on my rarely-used tumblr at evangelinelark.tumblr.com.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Box 5, Pt. 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Erik gets a name.</p><p>“<em>Christine</em>,” he murmurs, rolling the syllables over his tongue. It suits her - she looks like a Christine, and Erik can’t get the name out of his head so he plays with it instead, tampers with the enunciation and the stress and the musicality of it as Charlotte, Box 5’s smoky-voiced lead singer - “Let’s put our hands together again for <em> Chris-tineee </em>, girl, you’re more than welcome here but you’re gonna put me out of a job if you keep coming back and knocking our socks off!” - ushers the embarrassed but smiling girl onstage.</p><p>Waiting for her to show up had been an exercise in patience, anxiety, and resisting the urge to throttle Nate for not getting her friend’s number the night before. </p><p>"Erik, chill out, man. You're<em> shaking</em>."</p><p>"I'm <em> fine</em>. Leave me alone."</p><p>"She'll be here, don't worry. It's still early, y'know."</p><p>"You have no possible way of knowing whether she'll show or not. Her friend could've been lying to your face, for all you know."</p><p>Nate's face had indeed flickered with uncertainty, soliciting a curse from Erik. "Blondie didn't seem like the lying type, I swear, she was adamant!..."</p><p>But then she was suddenly <em> there</em>, getting into the small queue along the far right side of the stage, and Erik had instantaneously forgone stressing out over whether she was going to show up in favor of stressing out over the realization that in mere minutes she’d be <em>singing </em> again, just the thought of it sending a jolt of electricity humming under his skin.</p><p>Now he watches as she climbs the few steps up to the stage, dressed respectably in black jeans and a sky-blue cami, blushing at Charlotte’s enthusiastic intro.</p><p>From the way she walks onstage, he can clearly see that her confidence has grown since last night, like a visible, tangible thing - Erik feels inexplicably proud of her, and if something in his chest gives an unsettling little flutter when that thought crosses his mind, he doesn’t dwell on it. He takes in the parts of her that had eluded him last night: the slim sharpness of her jean-clad hips; the fullness of her lower lip; the shiny glossiness of her stick-straight hair; the notable shortness of her unpainted nails as she wraps her fingers around the mic, lowering it a good five or six inches.</p><p>She reaches up to tuck a strand of dark hair behind her left ear and Erik startles when he sees it, the tiny rust-red hickey on the corner of her jaw - the only blemish he can see on her otherwise pale skin - and after a second of thought, he wonders if she’s a violinist as well. A musician, through-and-through. </p><p>It’s absurd, the weird amalgamation of <em> emotions </em> that overwhelms him at this thought and at just the sight of her, only the second time he’s laid eyes on her; the <em> idea </em> of her is enough to make his gut twist, and in an utterly good way. It’s not physical attraction, it can’t be - Erik’s had enough experience to know what <em> that </em> feels like - but it’s not plain curiosity, either, the way he's felt for almost twenty consecutive hours now, like he's on some kind of miraculous, strange new drug that doesn't appear to be wearing off anytime soon - no, far from it.</p><p>He feels vaguely like he’s losing his mind, but he really can’t care any less.</p><p>The mic screeches unmercifully as <em> Christine </em>taps on it, jumps, waits for the feedback to sizzle out, and addresses the audience for the first time. </p><p>“Hi, hello! Um, tonight I’d like to sing <em> Mirrors</em>, by <em> The Phantom</em>.” </p><p>She gives a proud little smile and then looks to the side, nodding at the grinning guitarist, and four beat-counts later the band launches into the opening of the song Erik originally composed on a scrap of paper in a jail cell on his sixteenth birthday.</p><p>He can still feel the residual shock pulsing under his skin. Amplified over the hubbub of the room, the girl’s talking voice was almost as lovely as her singing voice, and but <em> fuck </em> if Erik doesn’t feel hot and cold all over at the memory of the sound, the very <em> motion </em>of her lips - a glossy pale pink, tonight - wrapping around the syllables of his artist name. </p><p><em> The Phantom</em>. </p><p>His original SoundCloud username, since then plastered on two platinum-certified albums, one gold, and a spattering of live performance posters. Two and a half years ago, back in the strange and chaotic period of assimilating into the Khan family while jumpstarting his musical career with Nate’s eager help, an eighteen-year-old Erik - fresh out of prison, and angry enough at the world to show it - had briefly considered officially branding himself “Angel of Death”. Morbid, melodramatic, and appropriately angsty.</p><p>He’s eternally grateful to Nate for talking him out of <em> that </em> one.</p><p>“Phantom,” Erik mutters reflexively to himself, watching as the girl - as <em> Christine </em> makes eye contact with the friend once again standing right by the stage, grinning in reassurance. The opening of the song really starts to pick up now, wild and a little eerie, erratic notes and shattering chords packed with the ethereal discordance that characterizes <em> The Phantom </em> more than perhaps anything else… </p><p>He wants her to say it again.</p><p>He wants her to say it again, he wants her to say it to him, to his face - to half of his face, at any rate - but then she opens her mouth and starts singing the first lines of the song, <em> his </em> song, and for the second night in a row Erik forgets everything in favor of just <em> existing </em>, listening with entire body and soul to this slip of a girl whose voice has utterly, irrevocably intoxicated him.</p><p>She’s transposed his song an octave up, and she’s taken the liberty of adding riffs in a much higher register - and <em> oh, </em> if he’d thought she had a good voice the night before, this is simply divine. She’s got good range - her lower notes last night had been marvelous - but <em> this </em>is clearly where she belongs, soaring, belting in the clearest, most crystalline-pure voice he’s ever heard, the voice of an angel with all the metaphorical sweetness of manna falling from the sky.</p><p>The song ends and Erik wakes up.</p><p>What is he <em> doing? </em></p><p>Logistically, he’s sitting in the dark; he’d found an empty lounge chair relatively close to the stage, dragged it deeper into the shadows untouched by stage lights and strobe lights alike. Nate, sitting next to him, is now rising to his feet.</p><p>“Erik, my friend, here’s your chance. Don’t screw it up.”</p><p>“Gee, thanks.”</p><p>All day he’d listened to Nate jabber on about recording sessions and executive calls and royalty contracts, feeling somewhat relieved by his friend’s fixation on the <em> professional </em> part of Erik’s fascina - <em> whatever </em>it is, with Christine - though something in Nate’s eyes right now tells him his friend doesn’t truly think that’s all there is to it. </p><p>Nate leans close, eyes flashing in a wicked grin.</p><p>“Now, go get her, Don Juan.”</p><p>“Shut the <em> fuck </em> up, Nate, or I’ll strangle you, I swear -”</p><p>“Nah, you won’t,” and Nate is sauntering away, grinning, obviously making for the gorgeous blonde leaning on the corner of the bar.</p><p>Erik huffs.</p><p>
  <em> Absolutely ridiculous. </em>
</p><p>Honestly. Despite Christine’s heavy makeup and her obvious attempts to look older and - he flushes at the thought, and then berates himself for doing so - <em> sexier</em>, he’s almost positive she’s in the club illegally. She can’t be much older than sixteen, he’s sure, and despite his trail of shitty life experiences (with jail time to boot), he hadn’t been lying when he told Nate he wasn’t a <em> pervert</em>. </p><p>There are some lines Erik absolutely won’t cross.</p><p>He <em> will </em> talk to her, he knows that. About what, he doesn’t have a clue. He doesn’t want to introduce himself as <em> The Phantom</em>, at least not right away; too much danger of exposure in a crowded club, and he has nothing to tell him how she might react. </p><p>Despite the magnificence of her voice, he couldn’t help picking up on the potential for improvement - miniscule, but there. More structured breathing leading up to her riffs, a more frantic accelerando in the chorus, maybe <em> less </em> structured breathing in the coda. It helps, of course, that she seems to like singing <em> his </em>songs - all the better for him to critique her, to admire her interpretation while pointing out its tiny deficiencies. </p><p>Perhaps he could offer to teach her?</p><p>“How’s everyone doing tonight!”</p><p>Charlotte’s voice cuts through the speakers, smoky and shrill and far too enthusiastic, and Erik automatically shoots a glare in her direction, only to discover with a start that she’s looking straight at him.</p><p>
  <em> The fuck - </em>
</p><p>“I’d like to take a moment to call out one <em> particular </em> guest we have with us here, tonight. His voice will <em> wow </em> you like nothing else…”</p><p>Erik narrows his eyes. This is a breach of contract, if Charlotte’s actually about to call him up on stage to perform; Nate had had the entire Box 5 band sign NDAs the first time he’d arranged one of Erik’s earliest performances at the small club, and the presence of his rather distinctive voice at <em> karaoke night </em> is bound to draw attention. </p><p>Erik looks around for Nate, but the guy’s disappeared, and so has the blonde.</p><p>“Fuck,” he grimaces, and immediately takes comfort in the knowledge that Christine will certainly be back tomorrow night, slightly bolstered by the fact that she’s shown up tonight as promised. Not a chance he’s going to stay and let Charlotte expose him - even if he refuses to walk onstage, the thought of dozens of curious eyes on him is enough to propel him out of his seat, sending him straight to the exit. Heads have already begun to turn in his direction, following Charlotte’s targeted gaze… </p><p>Talking to Christine will have to wait.</p><p>
  <em> Damn it, Charlotte!...  </em>
</p><p>So instead he fires off a quick text to Nate and leaves Box 5 for home - weaving his way mindlessly down dark streets and back alleys, gazing up at the starless sky above Manhattan, thoughts and emotions coalescing into fledgling melodies in his head.</p><p>Third night’s the charm. </p><p>
  <em> Hopefully. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>It’s 8:27 a.m. and the sun is streaming in through half-curtained windows when Nate stumbles blearily over the cool wood floors on his way to Erik’s kitchen - a kitchen he’s become very well acquainted with after staying at Erik’s place these past eight or so days, partly to enforce his friend’s abstinence and partly to make sure the guy <em> eats</em>. </p><p>The last time he’d stayed this long at Erik’s had been immediately after his mother’s death. </p><p>Grief-stricken, he’d abandoned his father and little sister at home like a total coward and fled to Erik’s midtown high-rise, finding a bit more solace in the impersonal black paneling and moody hues and fully-stocked bar, and in the relative silence broken only by the melancholic music emanating from the music room that told him he was not alone in his grief, even here. Erik was good about not pushing him to talk - Nate suspected Erik wouldn’t <em> know </em> how to begin talking about it - and Nate spent the week drinking his head off in the apartment before sobering up and going home to his bereaved family, apologetic and ashamed. </p><p>It had been a difficult journey from that moment to the Nate he was now, and in the space of that journey he’d come to realize more than ever just what kind of person Erik really was. Beyond the off-putting, short-tempered, enigmatic, insanely talented tall and skinny white guy with a nasty birth defect and a sob story that had eventually, one way or another, landed him in the state penitentiary by the time Nate’s father had heard of the “genius musician kid in B-block”, Erik Devereux was the brother Nate had never had, the most frustrating and baffling and problematic and yet - without a doubt - the most loyal person he’d ever met in his life. </p><p>If Nate has to stay over every so often to make sure Erik stays clean, and then scold him like a parent when he inevitably relapses, and then do it all over again, regularly jeopardizing his own lackadaisical attempt at a college degree… well, so be it.</p><p>A movement at the corner of his eye catches his attention and Nate grinds to a surprised halt in the music room doorway.</p><p>He blinks.</p><p>Silently he takes in the sight of a hazy-eyed and clearly sleep-deprived Erik with massive Sennheiser HDs on, leaning over the impressive home recording setup the Khans had gotten him for his nineteenth birthday, typing furiously into the laptop before turning to play something with his left hand on the digital keyboard, spindly fingers flying over the keys in a blur. The printer in the far corner is beeping on standby mode - and on the music rack and shelf of the simply massive concert grand several feet away in the center of the room are stacks of what appear to be freshly printed music in the stylistic format Nate knows Erik uses for all his original compositions.</p><p>With this observation Nate turns and continues his trek to the kitchen, grinning like a madman. </p><p>Drug-free and composing again; he <em> knows </em>it has to do with Box 5 and the tiny brunette with a voice even he can tell is nothing short of phenomenal. Funny how that sort of voice could come from someone so small, so… unassuming, honestly. Personally, he’d much preferred the friend with the light caramel-colored skin and the beautiful mess of dark-rooted curls, tastefully highlighted a soft honey blond. </p><p>It was a shame he hadn’t managed to get her number or even a name, only an appreciative glance and a well-played “I have a boyfriend” card.</p><p>Well, there’s plenty of fish in the sea. And plenty of meetings to schedule and contacts to call, if Erik’s maniacal composing streak keeps up and yields enough material for a brand new album. And, what’s more, since the stubborn ass has finally agreed to collab… </p><p>Fully awake now and in a great mood that, for once, is Erik-related, Nate cheerfully makes breakfast for the both of them, crunching on toast as he unwraps and sticks a chocolate chip pop tart into the ridiculously clean toaster oven. </p><p>(He will make fun of Erik’s sweet tooth until the day he dies. Really, for someone who claims to not enjoy <em> eating </em> , the volume of pop tarts and mini frosted donuts in his kitchen cabinets is <em> absurd</em>…)</p><p>When Nate walks back into the music room with a glass of orange juice and the toasted pop tart on a plate, fully intent on interrogating the guy until he confesses the source of inspiration behind his productive all-nighter (sometimes, Nate thinks, his familiarity with his dad’s occupation does come in handy…), it’s to find the would-be interrogatee slumped over the keyboard, mask knocked slightly askew, clearly and fully passed out.</p><p>“You bastard,” Nate murmurs fondly, picking up and taking a large bite of the pop tart as he turns and leaves Erik to his well-deserved slumber.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have nothing against healthy relationships with large age gaps - operative word being *healthy* - but I've always hated the implication of adult Erik having romantic feelings for child Christine in ALW. In a story chock full of examples of problematic behavior, it would be one of the more troubling ones... so my headcanon at this point is that those feelings don't manifest until she's, well, no longer a child. Hence why I've hammered in the non-perverted nature of my Erik with this chapter and the last one :D</p><p>Anyway! Apologies for dragging it out so long! The next chapter is pivotal, I promise, and the story will switch to Christine's POV right after that. </p><p>Thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to everyone who's given this story a chance so far &lt;3 Please continue to review - I'd love to hear your thoughts :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Box 5, Pt. 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mind the trigger warnings above.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure you’ll be fine?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fine, fine, yes I’ll be fine,” Erik says halfheartedly as he glances in the window of a Toyota Avalon parked curbside. A slash of black glares back at him, a cutting edge down the middle of his face thrown into stark relief by the yellow light of the street lamps, and he frowns - of course he had considered wearing the silicone mask he usually wears to meet people, but had decided against it. No need to confuse or frighten her, as the skin-tone rubber tends to do up close - under the flashing, sometimes disorienting lights of Box 5, Erik’s not taking a chance. “How’s Liya doing? She okay?”</span>
</p><p><span>He can practically hear Nate roll his eyes on the other end of the phone line. “Liya’s </span><em><span>thriving</span></em><span>. I can’t believe Dad’s forcing me to babysit her - and on a Saturday night, man!</span> <span>If she’s got enough energy to drive me insane, she’s got enough energy to take care of herself the rest of tonight. I may call you for backup at some point.”</span></p><p>
  <span>“No, you won’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I won’t. You, sir, get tonight off.” An aggravated sigh, distorted by cell signal. “The things I put up with for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Right on cue, the voice of the youngest Khan greets Erik’s ear.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nathaniel Khan,” comes imperiously in the background of the call, “quit whining to Erik and help me fix this! Wait, can he come over tonight? Ask him, pleeaaase!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik can’t suppress a tiny grin as he strides along, maneuvering his way around the inconsiderate slowpokes taking up precious space on the sidewalk. Erik can’t deny that he thoroughly enjoys the attention from Nate’s gregarious twelve-year-old sister, his undeniably most devoted fan; Aaliyah Khan is his weakness and he knows it, just like he knows that he’s her favorite person, much to Officer Khan’s amusement and Nate’s everlasting chagrin.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Is Christine a weakness?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>The random thought that Christine may very well be closer to Liya’s age than to his own scratches at the back of his mind. He quickens his pace, trying to outwalk the idea.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, sis, Erik’s a bit busy tonight,” Nate is laughing over the phone. “You see, he’s got this great big crush -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bye, Nate,” Erik says drily, and taps to end the call. Stuffing his phone into his pants, he nods cordially at the bouncers outside Box 5 - they know him and his mask by now, a minor blessing - and he walks right into the neon-lit, red-draped world where two nights ago he’d heard the voice of an angel.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He really doesn’t mind that Nate’s not around tonight; he doesn’t need </span>
  <em>
    <span>Nate</span>
  </em>
  <span> stressing him out when he suspects he’s going to be barely holding himself together. Heading straight for the bar he orders a whiskey and knocks it back, letting it burn its way down his throat and into his core; that taken care of, he turns to face the music (literally), scowling at the pitiful Shawn Mendes wannabe on the stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter - he knows who’ll be on that stage soon enough, and it’s enough to make his pulse accelerate under his skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quick walk and scan of the strobe-lit premises yields no sign of Christine or even her clubbing companion, the friend with the easily recognizable riot of blond-highlighted curls. It doesn’t help that the club is packed to the brim; the weekend is in full swing and Erik finds himself gritting his teeth, rather gracelessly shoving through the central crowd before deciding that she’s not in there either, in the large pack of bodies gyrating on the dance floor, and he retreats quickly to the fringes of the open area.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hot, and the air is thick, and Erik grimaces at the ungodly combination of perspiration and humidity gathering on his skin, coating the underside of his mask… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But he will be </span>
  <em>
    <span>damned</span>
  </em>
  <span> if he leaves without talking to Christine, </span>
  <em>
    <span>not again</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and so he looks for a seat, gratified to see that the lounge chair from last night is empty, still positioned in the shadows by the stage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’ll be with the offer of a collaboration, when he approaches her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As much as he hates the idea of exposure, Nate’s right - the most logical step forward is to introduce himself properly, invite her to a wholly professional meeting to discuss next steps. Explain to her in objective terms the extraordinary calibre of her voice, lure her in with the idea of potential stardom, end up in a recording studio - or anywhere, really - singing one of his songs, face to face, perhaps one of the few duets now lying on his piano after his streak of inspiration last night. Or perhaps… her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> her, her voice and his music, and he’ll probably never need morphine again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beyond that, well - Erik’s not so sure what he wants.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>XXXXXX</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The night wears on and the stress is building and Erik is about to spontaneously combust by the time he checks his phone to find that it’s nearly half past ten, a full two hours since he’s walked into Box 5. He’s long since vacated the lounge chair in favor of pacing the back of the club, eyes glued to the neon-lit entrance, fists clenching every time a sleek-haired brunette walks in.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where the hell is she?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He’s about to call Nate - to ask for help or to rage at their mutual helplessness, he doesn’t know - when </span>
  <em>
    <span>there she is</span>
  </em>
  <span>, suddenly walking in through the red neon frame like a creature through some unearthly portal, stiff-backed and uncertain and - alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her hair is wavy tonight - that’s the first thing he notices, and he can’t keep his eyes off it now, the long, dark chocolate waves glistening with red neon accents, blissfully cascading down her back. She’s barely taken a few steps into the club before she pauses, looking around almost wildly, and Erik furrows his brows in concern.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is that a flicker of </span>
  <em>
    <span>fear</span>
  </em>
  <span> he sees in her eyes?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He watches, confused, as she squares her shoulders before making her way toward the short queue at the side of the stage. The red scarf is back, wrapped to what looks like a restrictive degree of tightness around her neck, and she’s wearing flare-bottom jeans and a faded graphic T-shirt that’s infinitely more modest than the spaghetti-strap tops of the past two nights. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time she’s climbing up on stage yet again, she appears to be shaking off whatever funk she was in when she entered - and he can’t help but notice that her formerly mascara-laden eyes are clean this time, her lips apparently bare.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His curiosity flares.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The crowd is more quiet, expectant - some of them must recognize her by this point, when she walks across the stage and approaches the mic. Erik notices and ignores the mood of the room as he waits for her to announce her song selection, waits to see if she’ll name one of </span>
  <em>
    <span>his</span>
  </em>
  <span> songs again and wonders if he’ll feel disappointed if she doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Christine doesn’t name anything at all; she stares down at her feet, eyes impassive and brow furrowed, and the flash of rusty red on the corner of her jaw as she brushes a strand of hair away from her face does nothing to distract Erik from his growing, overwhelming worry that </span>
  <em>
    <span>something is not quite right</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Miss, your song?” prompts the lead guitarist. The crowd visibly fidgets, some starting to murmur, but Erik locks his gaze on the girl, bewildered, feeling the insane urge to stride to the front and leap up on the stage and just - hug her, </span>
  <em>
    <span>hold her</span>
  </em>
  <span>, or something. Anything to chase away her current passivity, the faraway look of uncertainty and something unreadable in her eyes - much more of this, and Erik has no idea what he’s going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then she turns to the guitarist.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>“</span>
  </em>
  <span>I want to sing </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wilderness</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik’s mouth goes dry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>XXXXXX</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He had always loved beautiful things.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Madeline Devereux had been beautiful - dark hair and darker eyes, soft hands, and a voice like a pretty song. He had been aware of this even against the bleak white hospital backdrop of his early childhood, even as her eyes had looked upon him with horror and pity after the first operation and tired despair after the twelfth or thirteenth; even as those warm smooth hands had grown calloused with the odd jobs and overtime shifts she’d picked up trying to pay for the escalating bills that the insurance could not cover. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’d once sung to him for comfort when he’d laid crying on the hospital sheets, his face ravaged not by his birth defect but by his body’s repeated rejection of the surgeries meant to fix it; her voice had grown tired, hoarsened by nights he knew she spent crying into her pillow, chipped away by stress and depression and the terrible responsibility of being a single mother with the singular curse of caring for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Madeline had been beautiful even as he’d watched her waste away, as she ran out of money for treatment when he was five - and he’d learned to live life under the half-mask that she’d made for him herself, the one she’d handed him as soon as he had arrived home.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had taught him there, at home, sparing him the cruelty of attending public school by teaching him grammar, math, history at their kitchen table, apparently baffled by his intelligence and screaming at the injustice of it all from behind her closet door, where she must’ve mistakenly thought he could not hear. He’d thought her beautiful whenever she came home from work at four in the morning and fell asleep on the couch - to the sound of his voice echoing the lullabies she’d used to sing to him, a little prodigy already finding second homes for himself in music stores, practice rooms, a kind neighbor’s apartment, pounding away at the piano like a child possessed. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>His mother had been beautiful the day he’d found her curled up on top of the covers, ice cold, dead, an empty pill bottle on the nightstand and a sad, beautiful smile on her frozen lips, and he had understood, he’d thought he did, even if his nine-year-old heart had twisted and bled.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d understood it less the older he grew, on his haphazard journey through foster homes and homeless shelters and </span>
  <em>
    <span>prison</span>
  </em>
  <span>; the knot of resentment had grown, silently, catalyzed by his mutation from his mother’s son into the “freak with the mask”. He has the Khans now, of course, and his own brand of fame, freak no more - but the knot is still in there, deep deep down, and it rises into Erik’s throat the moment he hears the song title issue from Christine’s lips - a rare, long-neglected tribute to the little lost boy he’d once been and the mother he’d once had.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Learn to be lonely… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>All of this flies into Erik’s head the moment the first chord strikes, and all of it is shoved to the wayside the moment Christine begins to sing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d written </span>
  <em>
    <span>Wilderness </span>
  </em>
  <span>while high and uncharacteristically sad, recorded it for his first album in sober resentment - all at once a mockery of his own emotions and a rare indulgence of sentimentality and tears. But in Christine’s voice, lovely and soft and just a little sad - it turns into a gentle plea, a soft requiem, a mourning so clear and genuine that it sounds to him like a different song, like one he does not know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s halfway through the song when he begins noticing the change.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It creeps into her voice so gradually he can’t identify it at first, not until her eyes are shut tight and both hands are lifting to wrap around the mic, squeezing, trembling as the ragged edges of emotion color her notes - a </span>
  <em>
    <span>vulnerability</span>
  </em>
  <span> so keen that Erik wants to take her in his arms and never let go, protect her against the rest of the damn world if need be because now she’s singing his song like she knows him, feels him, like she feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>it</span>
  </em>
  <span> herself - the shuddering agony of grief buried deep, of a loss she doesn’t understand.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christine is</span>
  <em>
    <span> grieving</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she has to be - and Erik stays rooted to the spot, immobilized by the sheer power of the sorrow emanating from that stage, washing over the room in notes and syllables he crafted himself; and as she brings the short song to a close there is only one thought he can grasp, clinging onto it even as he flounders in the violent sea of his own emotions.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He needs to </span>
  <em>
    <span>know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>After, the crowd is stunned into silence, and then after a suspended, eternal moment roars into a cacophony of raucous applause and wolf whistles. But he’s only got eyes for Christine, who’s clearly not herself, her wide, opened eyes staring into nothingness - shining, no, </span>
  <em>
    <span>wet</span>
  </em>
  <span> - before the mic picks up the definitive sound of a single sob, quieting the audience somewhat, the soft noise instantly putting him on edge, alert - before the girl is gone, darting off the stage and into her audience, the now-uncertain crowd parting before her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik is frozen, immobilized by the suddenness of her movement and the lingering shock of her performance - and by the time he registers his mind’s screaming command to </span>
  <em>
    <span>follow, follow, follow her </span>
  </em>
  <span>she’s disappearing around the corner, into the backstage hallway he knows leads out into an alleyway behind the club - and the streets of midtown Manhattan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Dammit</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he swears out loud, and moves - brushing by people left and right, swerving inelegantly, cursing everyone in his way as the reality of the situation dawns - he needs to get to her, he needs to make sure she’s okay, he needs to </span>
  <em>
    <span>talk to her </span>
  </em>
  <span>before she leaves tonight, before she possibly leaves Box 5 never to return after the monumental enormity of the emotion she’s just unleashed on that undeserving stage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Erik moves faster, sprinting now - he knocks right into a waiter with a tray of empty glasses, fully ignoring the tinkling, splintering crash in his wake as he races around the corner, slamming into the opposite wall with his momentum, and makes for the closed door at the end of the empty hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>God fucking dammit! </span>
  </em>
  <span>He will not lose her, not now -</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But by the time he slams open the screeching metal door to burst outside into the cool nighttime air, it’s to the sight of an empty alleyway, the steady flow of late night traffic on the adjacent street, and the nightlife crowd on the sidewalk obscuring any sign of the only girl he’s absolutely </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to talk to for the first time in his entire life.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>XXXXXX</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s a thudding sense of dread all day, a metronome of finality ticking in his gut, and he desperately ignores it - squashes it down as he wanders through the next day, trembling like he’s high, walking mindlessly through the streets of Manhattan as he waits for karaoke hour to begin, clinging to desperate </span>
  <em>
    <span>hope</span>
  </em>
  <span> so tightly he feels like he might break and crumble. There is no city as used to the unusual as New York but that doesn’t stop people from turning to glance and gawk at the young man in the black half-mask feverishly patrolling the four-block radius surrounding Box 5 like a madman, his usual skin-tone mask for the daylight hours forgotten at home. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>For once in his life, Erik can’t care less.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The metronome speeds up and roars into his ears, a high-pitched ringing like he’s losing his mind, when he sits waiting in Box 5 that night until the place is empty but for the tired bartenders, band, and janitorial staff - with no sign of Christine at all, or of her friend for that matter. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just… gone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He flags down and interrogates the managers, a helpless Nate trailing behind him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You </span>
  <em>
    <span>have </span>
  </em>
  <span>to have her contact info - she performed here three damn nights in a row!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir, please calm down - we don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>collect</span>
  </em>
  <span> names or numbers. This is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>karaoke bar</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bullshit. What about cameras? How’d she get here, car or taxi? Maybe you can pull a license plate -”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We have cameras inside Box 5, but not on the street. Sir, are you alright? Sir</span>
  <em>
    <span> - </span>
  </em>
  <span>back off, </span>
  <em>
    <span>right now,</span>
  </em>
  <span> or security is escorting you out!…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He smashes an entire row of bar glasses with a frustrated roar, sweeping them crashing and tinkling to the ground; Nate gives the managers an apology and a credit card number, securing them the shaky right to at least talk to the band members before security dumps them out on the street.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The instrumentalists are patently useless; Charlotte, whom he resents even more now that he’s heard Christine, merely shakes her head in apology when he insists for the twentieth time that Christine must have mentioned her last name, her hometown, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the three nights Charlotte let her up on stage to sing. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, babe, I got nothing,” is all Charlotte offers, curious and uncharacteristically sympathetic, if her furrowed brow and tone of voice are anything to go by. “Sorry if I made you uncomfortable, by the way, the night before last. I was just teasing you. I wouldn’t actually have called you out, you know. I </span>
  <em>
    <span>did</span>
  </em>
  <span> sign a contract.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He stares at her in disbelief - he will </span>
  <em>
    <span>strangle</span>
  </em>
  <span> her for what she’s done - but then Nate’s taking his shoulder, forcefully guiding Erik away from the discomfited singer, and he can’t find it in himself to resist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it is, his identity is useless. He considers breaking anonymity, and is appraised of the futility of such a gesture by an infuriatingly level-headed Nate.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What are you going to do, Erik? Send your identity to TMZ along with an oddly specific call for all Christines who’ve performed at a Manhattan club named Box 5 in the past week? You’ll be swarmed, you know!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What fucking option do I have? What would </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> suggest,” Erik snarls.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nate only stares at him before responding very quietly, “You - or rather, I - could release something on those social media accounts you barely touch. If this girl’s a fan, and you don’t mind weirding people out on your official accounts… well, this </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> work.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do it.” But beyond a brief slew of speculation and responses from dozens of wrong Christines that he leaves Nate to deal with, there is nothing, and three days later Erik trashes a convenience store when the cashier - a college-age teenager with wavy brown hair - looks a little too curiously at his mask.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nate cleans that up for him, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>One girl in New York in mid-March, a city with a thousand Christines and an influx of high school and college students making the most of their spring breaks… The improbability of finding her is killing him, as is his inability to do anything other than haunt Box 5 like a half-masked ghost - google her first name and a dozen variations on “sing” for the tenth, twentieth, fiftieth time - hog outdoor corner tables all day watching the streets like a hawk, earning watchful glares from the cafe staff in turn - berate himself, over and over, for failing to accomplish what any other person - any </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal </span>
  </em>
  <span>person might have done in a heartbeat.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck you, Devereux, you fucking coward, you wimp, you asinine </span>
  </em>
  <span>fool</span>
  <em>
    <span>…</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <span>If only he’d gotten over himself and just gone up to her, introduced himself, asked for her number, demanded a full goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>name</span>
  </em>
  <span>! </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d never known - God, Erik had never known he could experience something like that, something beautiful, something that could touch him so fiercely and wholly and </span>
  <em>
    <span>wonderfully</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the loveliest euphoria in his entire godforsaken existence - and now he’s known it, and lost it, and the fact is slowly driving him insane - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>- and the overwhelming grief in her voice, singing his song like a heartbroken angel, is going to haunt him until he dies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>XXXXXX</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He won’t ever know.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the certainty of this is killing him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sitting on the floor with his back against the cold tile wall, he unbuckles his belt and wraps it once, loosely, around his upper right arm. He doesn’t know what’s changed, at what point he’s accepted that he’s lost her before ever saying a goddamn </span>
  <em>
    <span>word; </span>
  </em>
  <span>he doesn’t know her, he doesn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>understand</span>
  </em>
  <span> the impetus behind her grief, the thundering enormity of its impact on him, why he even cares at all… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that</span>
  <em>
    <span> voice -</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He sits on the bathroom floor, arms bare, hearing nothing but the voice of an angel - haunting and lovely, pure and seductive and </span>
  <em>
    <span>sad </span>
  </em>
  <span>- and he feels nothing but an oh-so-familiar restlessness that burns throughout his body like a flame from hell.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s been thirteen days since his last hit.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Damn it all.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>He finishes wrapping the belt around his upper arm and takes the end in his teeth, clamping down into the worn leather as the makeshift tourniquet tightens, biting into his skin. Calmly he picks up the small vial and syringe; with a fluid confidence born of experience he uncaps the needle and prepares the dosage, turning his right forearm palm up - and Erik’s suddenly bowled over by a torrent of clamoring regret, screeching in his ears, self-loathing at its finest.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>If it wasn’t for your mask… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Breath hissed, belt yanked tight, vein pinched with practiced fingers - and the needle slides right in.</span>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>...I’m sorry? </p><p>When I originally outlined this fic (with zero intention of posting it anywhere), I’d structured it as a collection of short stories in mostly chronological order. These first four chapters, collectively “Box 5”, would’ve been the first story in the series; there were supposed to be eight stories in total, and while that’s irrelevant now since I’m posting them as one fic, I think I’ll continue naming the chapters in accordance with the original story structure. </p><p>Next up is what I’d originally labeled “Chapel”, which is all Christine’s POV and should clear quite a few things up; this past chapter was incredibly hard to write, but I do have the whole fic outlined and not to worry - it is most definitely E/C. It may just take them a little while to get there.</p><p>(While ‘Learn to be Lonely’ was of course a large part of the inspiration for ‘Wilderness’, I listened to Eric Clapton’s ‘Tears in Heaven’ while writing that scene - you can find it at https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxPj3GAYYZ0.)</p><p>Edit: I should also mention that Liya Khan is my version of Reza. As always, reviews are so appreciated :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapel, Pt. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u"> March 2017 </span>
</p><p> </p><p>Christine Daae has broken the law for the very first time and, for now, she’s over the <em> moon</em>.</p><p>Speckles of blue, violet, splashes of pink scatter from the rotating strobe above them as she clutches her best friend’s hand, soaking it all in, letting herself be dragged into the club. It’s like entering a parallel universe: there are people swaying, people dancing, people - oh God - <em> making out </em> on the dance floor, on the deep red leather couches, in dark corners where she can barely see; the rich red decor and the lights smother everything in surreality, rich and dazzling, as she glances upward at the snowy stars. </p><p>There is a band playing on stage - two guitarists, a keyboardist, and a drummer, and a gorgeous woman more redhead than brunette swaying her hips to the beat, hands raised high. Even with just a few instrumentalists, the energy on the stage is palpable, and she recalls Meg’s words back on the subway ride to midtown - </p><p>“Box 5 is amazing, Chrissie! I know you’ll love it. Wait til you hear their in-house band - you’re gonna <em> swoon.</em>”</p><p>She’s not quite swooning yet - the band isn’t even really playing, more so riffing in time to the drummer jamming out - evidently having the time of his life - but then she bumps into someone, jarring her hand from Meg’s grip. </p><p>“I’m sorry!” she says, but the person ignores her. It’s too loud to hear, she surmises, and quickly turns to look for her friend, suddenly nervous. A flash of the strobe lights streaks across her eyes, blinding her momentarily, and she looks around wildly for a lime green crop top and blond-highlighted hair -</p><p>“Come on, Chrissie!” and Meg’s suddenly in front of her, taking her hand again, leading her further into the club. </p><p>It’s like beauty and danger all at once, a fascinating sensation<em> - </em> a sinful fairy tale - and it doesn’t take long for the thudding bass beat vibrating through the floor and air to embed itself in every part of her body, wrapping constrictively around her brain as she follows in a sort of daze, her feet carrying her past men in dress shirts and women in sleek, tight outfits that make her eyes bug out - glued to the bare skin on display, to those perfect abs and curves and breasts that make her suddenly aware of everything she is not.</p><p>She swings her gaze to her friend, still leading her onward; Meg is everything she is not as well, gorgeous caramel skin and a dancer’s long, lithe legs - but she is Meg, her best friend, and Christine quickens her pace a little until she’s nearly walking at the other girl’s side.</p><p>“C’mon, <em> c’mon</em>,” Meg turns to shout in her ear with a giggle, delighted, and they continue edging past clubbers, weaving around couples, navigating the labyrinth that represents the first time Christine has been somewhere she’s not supposed to be.</p><p>It isn’t until they’ve made it far past the bouncers, almost all the way to the huge mahogany wraparound bar, that she thinks to ask.</p><p>“Say, are you ever gonna tell me how you got us fake IDs?”</p><p>“Shhh!” Meg throws her a look with only a little heat in it, angling her head meaningfully at the bartender serving drinks a few feet away, and Christine winces, shutting up immediately. She lets Meg walk up to the bar, flashing both her phony driver’s license and the very real shiny red credit card she’d opened only at the start of the semester. Christine glances around, spotting nearby a small couch somehow empty of clubbers, and decides to claim it before anyone else does.</p><p>It’s less than ten seconds before Meg is joining her there and Christine scooches closer, leaning over to talk over the noise of the club. “Won’t your mom see the credit card charge?”</p><p>“Oh, Mom knows,” Meg replies easily, running a hand through the mass of tight curls normally tied back in a ballerina’s bun - not tonight. Christine’s disbelief must show on her face because her friend takes one look and laughs out loud, leaning languidly against the low back of the couch, crossing her legs with the utmost grace.</p><p>“You didn’t tell me your mom was okay with this!”</p><p>Meg smirks. “This is probably the <em> only </em> club Mom’s okay with. One of the managers is her friend from college, or something like that, and as far as clubs go this one’s pretty <em> safe</em>, if you get what I mean. Oh, that’s our drinks! I’ll be right back.”</p><p>Christine nods as Megs gets up and heads to the bar. No, she doesn’t get what her friend means - but she files this tidbit away in her head, once again reconstructing her mental image of Meg’s mother. </p><p>Amanda Ghiry is a force to be reckoned with, in many ways. Christine knows how hard Meg practices, and she knows that a large part of that is Mrs. Ghiry, ballet instructor and perfectionistic to a fault. Christine’s been over frequently enough to also know that Mrs. Ghiry is a phenomenal cook and keeps a pristine house, is for all her strictness a good mother who supports her daughter’s penchant for music beyond the classical pieces and soft pop ballads she dances to - and is also, apparently, a cool mom willing to bestow her blessing on Meg’s burgeoning exploration of New York nightlife. </p><p>Christine frowns; it’s not impossible, she supposes. A ballet instructor willing to gift her ballerina daughter CDs of her favorite rock bands could very well be okay with the idea of her daughter going to a known, “safer” club for a night of spring break fun.</p><p>On the other hand, her dad would be <em> livid</em>.</p><p> “Here we go!”</p><p>Meg’s back with two long-stemmed cocktail glasses, shoving one into Christine’s hand, and Christine grips the cool-wet glass with a thrill of trepidation. “So. How does it feel to finally walk on the wild side?”</p><p>“I’m not sure yet,” Christine admits, staring at the shockingly red drink in her hand. The thought of her dad is nagging at her now, a weight on her mind. “I’m still shocked we got <em> in</em>.”</p><p>“We wouldn’t have gotten in most places,” Meg says, sipping at her drink with a confident nonchalance that Christine notices and admires, as always. “But Box 5 is a little more… understanding, let’s say, than the other clubs in this area. Just look around you.”</p><p>She does. “Oh my god, is that Logan? From Chem class?”</p><p>“Looks like it,” Meg smirks. Now that Christine’s paying attention, she can see how <em> young </em> some of the other clubbers are - no more familiar faces, but certainly high school ones, and the knowledge of this eases some of her anxiety away.</p><p>Emboldened, she takes a sip from her cocktail glass - and is pleasantly surprised by the fizzy sweetness of the drink, something red with a candied cherry bobbing in it. “Hey, this is good! What is it?”</p><p>“A Shirley Temple. Non-alcoholic, which is probably why you like it.” Meg grins, obviously satisfied with her choice, and leans back against the couch. “You’re welcome.”</p><p>“Thanks,” Christine smiles, before something occurs to her. “Wait - your mom won’t tell my dad about this, will she?”</p><p>“Uh, no, you’re good.” Meg plucks the cherry from her own glass and eats it, pursing her lips. “Mom thinks I’m here with Peter.”</p><p>“Oh.” Peter is Meg’s boyfriend of the past five months, and Christine feels a tiny rush of guilt. “I hope I haven’t ruined any plans…”</p><p>Meg scoffs. “What plans? Chrissie, don’t be ridiculous. Peter and I have been here before - that’s how I know the place, remember? It’s how I got our IDs, too.”</p><p>“Wait, really? That was Peter?”</p><p>“Mm-hm.” There’s pride visible on Meg’s beaming face. “And he’s hanging out with his friends tonight, anyway. And <em> we </em> haven’t hung out properly in <em> forever </em>. What’s up with that?”</p><p>Christine takes another sip of her drink. It’s really very good - she could get used to this, she thinks, and then laughs at herself for the thought. <em> Christine Daae, clubber extraordinaire</em>… The drink isn’t even alcoholic. Heh. “Ugh, you know, the usual. Dad wants me to audition for NYSO in the fall, which apparently means an extra hour of practice starting <em> now </em>. According to him, at least. As if I haven’t been working on potential audition pieces since last year - I started the Sibelius in February, for crying out loud.”</p><p>“Aw.” Meg hums sympathetically. “It’s been a rough semester, too. You’re not burning yourself out, are you?”</p><p>“No, I’m okay. I can’t complain. I know you’ve been working just as hard.” It’s true - junior year of high school has been a lot for both of them. Outside of school, Meg’s got her dancing, and Christine alternates between lessons with her official private teacher, informal lessons with her father, and practicing on her own, though she’s never really practicing on her own as long as her dad is around to correct and critique her. One long never-ending lesson.</p><p>“... can’t complain either,” Meg is saying. “But no more talk of <em> that </em>. We’re here to take a well-deserved break and have a good time. Agreed?”</p><p>Christine takes a deep breath. She can’t remember the last time she’d outright disobeyed her father; if she’s being honest with herself, she’s never really wanted to before. For all his perfectionism when it comes to his craft, he’s a surprisingly relaxed parent in almost every other way - save for his strong dislike of <em> anything </em> but classical music - and Christine cherishes their close relationship. </p><p>She knows that plenty of her classmates at school aren’t so lucky.</p><p>But she’d lied to his face, tonight, knowing he wouldn’t want her here in Box 5, alone with Meg in the thick of New York’s teeming nightlife, with a <em> fake driver’s license </em> no less… </p><p>But then she reminds herself that her dad’s a little too close-minded for his own good, and she’s been such a dutiful daughter and student her entire life, and she has a <em> right, </em>goddamnit, to be a teenager and have a little fun if she wants to, before it’s too late. </p><p>She’s almost seventeen already, for heaven’s sake.</p><p>“Agreed. Let’s have fun!” Christine says and Meg beams, clinking her glass to hers.</p><p>“To spring break!” Meg proclaims happily, and they down the rest of their Shirley Temples together. Now that she’s gotten over her little crisis of conscience, Christine is starting to feel deliciously loose - warm from the atmosphere of the club, excited to see what the night will bring. There’s about four hours to midnight, when the libraries will close and her dad will be expecting her home; <em> four hours </em> in Box 5, to dance and drink virgin cocktails and do things that the normal Christine Daae would never do, and the freedom of it is intoxicating.</p><p><em> Till midnight, </em> and she smiles at the thought. <em> Like a Cinderella story. </em></p><p>The pounding music suddenly cuts off and the girls look around in bewilderment before a <em> tap-tap </em> through the speakers brings their attention to the stage.</p><p>“Eight o’clock, people, and we want <em> you </em>,” exclaims the singer, the redhead, practically kissing the microphone. “Karaoke hour is on - Box 5 is open for business!”</p><p>A collective cheer from the crowd as a tamped-down version of the music resumes and Christine watches as several clubbers make their way to the side of the stage, lining up at the metal steps. She feels a nudge and turns to find Meg looking at her expectantly, a wide open smile on her face.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You know what.” Meg lifts her chin in the direction of the stage. “A microphone, an actual audience. No Dad and no consequences. Gee, I’d forgotten about karaoke night.”</p><p>Christine casts a glance at the stage. “I don’t know. I’m sure they’re all really good…”</p><p>“Um, so are you.”</p><p>“Meg, I couldn’t.”</p><p>“Do it, Chrissie. I dare you.”</p><p>“Meg, I’d <em> die </em> up there.”</p><p>“Oh come <em> on </em>, Chrissie!” Meg huffs in exasperation, setting her empty cocktail glass down on the low metal-rimmed table. “I’ve told you a million times, your voice is amazing and you deserve to show everyone what you’ve got!”</p><p>“Meg, I -”</p><p>How can she explain to her that it would feel like the ultimate betrayal?</p><p>“Meg, my dad thinks I’m at the <em> library </em> right now,” she hisses, lowering her voice now that the dance music has stopped. “And you <em> know </em> how he feels about my singing. He hates it.”</p><p>“You’re being dramatic. He doesn’t <em> hate </em>it, he just doesn’t like the music we listen to. There is a difference, you know.” </p><p>Christine knows, all right.</p><p>Gustave Daae, principal associate concertmaster of the New York Philharmonic, absolutely abhors modern music. It’s why Christine listens to music with headphones on, why she practices violin at home and takes her fangirling across the street to Meg’s apartment. </p><p>As for singing - </p><p>It’s more a feeling than anything else, the assumption that Dad wouldn’t appreciate her singing, even if it wasn’t pop or alt rock. Whether it’s because he wouldn’t want her to distract herself from the violin or because her late mother used to sing… well. </p><p>Christine’s never figured it out. </p><p>An hour ago, she’d been slopping makeup on in front of Meg’s vanity, putting contacts in, shimmying into clothes she wouldn’t be caught dead in in front of anyone she actually knew (other than Meg, of course). They’d kept <em> The Phantom </em> playing in the background - “I am <em> so </em> jealous you got to see him live,” she’d sighed for the thousandth time. “I think Dad would legitimately ground me if I even <em> mentioned </em> going to an alt rock concert” - and she’d listened in eager rapture as Meg had described the one performance she’d been to with Peter, enthralled once again by Meg’s description of the event, messing up her eyeliner as a result.</p><p>And then her favorite song had come on, and she’d forgotten the eyeliner in favor of grabbing Meg’s hairbrush, holding it up like a microphone, singing her heart out in front of a laughing Meg in a way she would never think about doing at home… </p><p>“I’m gonna do it,” Christine says out loud, before she can stop herself. But she loses the chance to take it back when Meg squeals and wraps her arms around her, hugging her tightly before pulling her to her feet.</p><p>“I knew you’d see reason,” Meg smirks as she begins walking, pulling Christine after her in the direction of the stage. “Oh, I’m so excited!”</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>In the queue that’s already formed, Christine stands nervously, twisting the ends of her scarf. </p><p><em> The Phantom. </em> She’s going to sing <em> The Phantom. </em></p><p>She can’t quite remember a time when she <em>wasn</em><em>’t</em> obsessed with <em>The Phantom</em>, and for good reason. The guy has a massive fan base, despite or perhaps because of his anonymity, and everything about him is so utterly <em>intriguing.</em> Full-face mask! Exclusive performances! <em>Insane</em> voice… </p><p>It's rock, kind of, but not really - alternative rock, perhaps, but Christine likes to think of it as a genre all its own. Only a few albums out there, and the guy’s already more than proven his versatility. Hauntingly ethereal at times, gutturally, grindingly raw at others - gorgeous and insidious and heartbreaking by turns, gloriously <em> different</em>.</p><p>Mom would've<em> loved </em> him.</p><p>Meg cheers her on as she climbs on stage - it’s far too easy to pick her boisterous friend out in the crowd, and she can’t help but smile tightly in response even as her stomach roils and riots. And then she’s there - she’s in front of the microphone stand, under the spotlight, and she only realizes that the lead guitarist is talking to <em> her </em> a few seconds after the fact. “Um, sorry?”</p><p>“I asked what you’d like to sing,” the guy repeats, not unkindly, and Christine blanks for one terrifying moment before she remembers.</p><p>“Yes, right. Uh - <em> Way We Might Have Been, </em> by <em> The Phantom. </em> Do you know it?”</p><p>The guy winks at her. “Hell yeah. <em> Way We Might Have Been</em>,” he repeats to the other band members, and four beat-counts later Christine’s stomach lurches as they launch right into it, music that she knows like the back of her hand, and she’s never been so scared or so excited in her life.</p><p>It’s a song from <em> The Phantom’s </em> latest album, released less than two months ago. It’s a pretty dark song - raw, gritty, sexy, but with a touch of beautiful melancholy that is <em> everything</em>, and unlike some of his other songs Christine’s actually sung this one in front of Meg before. </p><p>It’s why she’d decided on it pretty much immediately, back in the queue.</p><p>But a one-person audience of her best friend, in the privacy of Meg’s bedroom, is <em> vastly </em> different from the crowd of strangers facing her now, waiting, expectant -</p><p>
  <em> Meg, I’m gonna kill you. </em>
</p><p>Christine takes in everything, in those terrifying moments before her entrance arrives - when the determination to cling to her newfound rebellious streak almost isn’t enough to keep her there, standing on stage for everyone to see. The clubbers, the bartenders - hell, even Meg, Meg who’s jammed out to <em> The Phantom </em>with her a million times - Meg’s never heard her voice through a microphone before and oh God, what if the speaker system only amplifies all her imperfections, what if she’s about to utterly humiliate herself, what if, what if - </p><p>She realizes that she’s shaking; her palms are cold and clammy, and as the music swells and then recedes, she raises a hand to clamp it around the mic, holding on for dear life.</p><p>And then she’s <em> singing</em>, and Christine forgets everything in favor of the here and now and the music that she’s making, feeling it creep through every nerve, soar on every breath, exhilarating, transcendent.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oh but it is SO much more fun writing Christine!</p><p>I won’t say it’s more interesting, because Erik is as interesting a character as you will get - but whereas I can’t really say that I relate to everyone’s favorite deformed, musically-gifted sociopath (this is, perhaps, a good thing), I can certainly relate more to our young heroine. I was so excited to introduce Christine with this chapter and I hope she’s lived up to expectations so far.</p><p>Thank you for giving this lil story a chance! As always, thoughts and feedback would be lovely :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapel, Pt. 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>She stares at herself in the bathroom mirror.</p><p>Her hair is sleek and straight, glossy brown sheets spilling around her face and shoulders that show no sign of the entire hour she’d spent straightening and brushing it out. Her lips are glistening with the layer of radiant lip shimmer she’s just reapplied and her mascara has oh-so-slightly smeared due to the heat, though it’s barely noticeable against the heavy eyeliner Meg had insisted upon; she tugs her neckline a little lower, tentatively, watching the electric blue shift across her skin.</p><p>They say looks don’t make you who you are but Christine <em>feels</em> different, that’s the thing - the electrifying, breathless thing - and she beams at herself in the mirror, flushed and a little giddy.</p><p>It had been over before she’d known it.</p><p>There’d been applause, raucous cheers and wolf whistles - and oh, it had been for <em>her</em>, and she can’t stop herself from smiling now at the vivid recollection of it, flying down the steps of the stage and right into Meg’s arms, crushed in a tight fierce Meg-hug as her friend squeals in genuine delight.</p><p>“I told you, I <em>told</em> you so,” Meg shouts, grinning triumphantly, and Christine’s forced to concede with an impossibly wide smile she can’t possibly contain, the residual energy flowing through her veins making her feel more alive than she has in ages.</p><p>This – this is <em>glorious.</em></p><p>She does enjoy the violin, enjoys performing - it’s in her blood, after all, and despite her semi-regular grouching to Meg she really does love it, the meticulous pursuit of perfection that she’s been on for forever, a journey with its own hard-earned rewards – but singing, singing is something different. She’s never had a singing lesson in her life and she intends to keep it that way, this play of pure passion, fun and carefree, simply <em>emoting</em>, all hers and no one else’s.</p><p>
  <em>Christine Daae, triumphant.</em>
</p><p>She studies herself once again in the mirror, eyeing the thin red scarf around her neck, frowning. She doesn’t know what had possessed her to wear it to a club, of all places - it was a ratty old scarf, one she’d found a long time ago in a box of her mother’s things and cherished silently ever since, and thinking about it never fails to conjure up the vague memory of cold ocean water and a boy with golden hair - but it’s her talisman, in her own weird way, and she’d grabbed it as an afterthought just before she’d left for Meg’s.</p><p>A way to keep some part of her usual appearance intact, as it were.</p><p>But right now it only looks out of place against the rest of this persona, this new Christine who goes clubbing and drinks Shirley Temples and belts out <em>The Phantom </em>on stage, interrupting the pale swath of skin from neck to chest – “Why are you wearing <em>that?</em>” Meg had asked when they’d left for Box 5, “It’s a club, Chrissie. No one cares how much skin you show” - and in a rush of daring Christine unravels it and slides it off, wrapping and tying it securely instead around her waist.</p><p>Crimson red on bright blue – she eyes it critically, but the brush of air against the exposed skin of her collarbone is refreshing, and she decides to leave it.</p><p>“You’re only sixteen once, Christine,” she murmurs out loud. “Time to start acting like it.”</p><p>It’s a loud, now familiar red velvet world that she re-enters a minute later and Christine soaks it all in again, living.</p><p>“Chrissie, there you are! You’ve got fans,” Meg yells dramatically when she makes her way over, to the edge of the dance floor where she’d left for the bathroom not so long ago.</p><p>Christine blinks. “What?”</p><p>“Someone came up to me, asking about you,” Meg explains, a wicked look in her eyes. “He was <em>hot</em>, Chrissie. I’ve never met someone with eyes that green – and his <em>biceps –</em> ”</p><p>“Hold on,” Christine interrupts, laughing. “You’ve got a <em>boyfriend</em>, Meg, you’re not supposed to say things like that!”</p><p>“What Peter doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Meg declares primly before dissolving into giggles and sobering up in quick succession. “Okay, but nothing happened, Chrissie, we just talked. Honest. I even told him I have a boyfriend.”</p><p>“Right, then. What’d he say?”</p><p>Meg steps back, twirls Christine around to the beat of the song before responding. “Well, he absolutely loved you. Said you had the voice of an angel, wanted – get this – your name and number.”</p><p>“You’re joking.”</p><p>“Nuh-uh. Chrissie, you’ve got yourself an admirer.”</p><p>Meg singsongs the last few words, and Christine stops moving, blushing, hard.</p><p>“I don’t – what? Wait, he can’t know my name! I’m not supposed to <em>be </em>here!”</p><p>The other girl’s hands are gripping hers in an instant, pulling her back into the relentless rhythm of the dance. “Relax, I didn’t give him anything. He doesn’t know <em>my </em>name, either. I’m not dumb, you know.”</p><p>“I know you’re not. But –” and Christine hesitates, decides to go for it anyway – “what did he want it for?”</p><p>“I don’t think it was for him, actually. He mentioned a friend, though there wasn’t anyone with him.”</p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>
  <em>A friend?</em>
</p><p>The thought is… exciting.</p><p>The thought of<em> flirting</em> in general is new and exciting, to be honest, in a dangerous, forbidden sort of way… the idea of someone else finding you attractive enough to walk up to your best friend and act on it sounds rather bold, and Christine’s randomly struck by a tingle of longing.</p><p>Not that she’d even remotely know how to respond, but why wouldn’t this <em>friend</em> come up to her himself?</p><p>“A friend,” she repeats lamely, for lack of anything better to say. “A friend who liked my singing?”</p><p>“I think so,” Meg muses, though the expression in her eyes says otherwise. “Perhaps he’s shy? I can’t imagine why someone would send their friend otherwise. And said friend was pretty intense, too. The guy had some serious game.” She laughs. “I told him that we’re gonna be here the next few nights.”</p><p>“Wait, what? <em>Why</em>?”</p><p>“Because we <em>are</em>, Chrissie! What else are we gonna do for the rest of spring break?</p><p>Christine huffs. Meg’s got a point. But - “You want me to lie to my dad, <em>again?</em> I thought this was gonna be a one-time thing!”</p><p> “But it’s fun,” Meg says, like it’s as simple as that. “Aren’t you having fun?”</p><p>“<em>Meg</em>,” Christine whines, and Meg rewards her by twirling her until she can’t see straight.</p><p>“Chris-<em>tine</em>,” her friend lilts right back. “I, for one, don’t want to spend the rest of spring break at home or with Peter – I see him often enough, you know. What’s a girl gotta do to get her best friend to go clubbing with her?”</p><p>“Grovel at her feet and buy her chocolate for a month?”</p><p>“Hey, I do that anyway.”</p><p>“Not the groveling part, you don’t.” But Christine’s smiling now, and they both know who’s won. She doesn’t mind, not really. Meg Ghiry is a lot of things, but boring she is not - and Christine’s life is infinitely the better for it, so capitulation it is. “Okay, fine. Only because this is actually pretty fun so far.”</p><p>“At the risk of sounding like a broken robot, I told you so.” Meg flashes her a grin. “Besides, we can’t rob Box 5 of its prima donna now that she’s had her grand debut!”</p><p>The adrenaline of her performance comes rushing back to her and Christine smiles, giddy and genuine. “Thank you, Meg. I mean it – it was wonderful.”</p><p>“Love you too, Chrissie.”</p><p>And then Meg’s eyes are lighting up as the song changes – “Oh my <em>god</em>, can you believe it? Come <em>on!</em>” – and the energy of the crowd is changing, morphing into something more upbeat, tangible, <em>fun</em>, and Christine’s laughing breathlessly as she tries to keep up with her friend, all restless feet and undulating hips and giddy, sparkling eyes.</p><p>
  <em>Nothin’ I can see but you when you dance, dance, dance… </em>
</p><p>The digital bedside clock reads 11:49pm when she slips under her covers that night, face cleansed and clothing shucked into the hamper at Meg’s, having let herself gently inside her apartment to find a light left on and her dad already gone to bed. She lies awake for ages, reliving the night and all its novelties, the multiple trips to the bar for “fine, maybe just one more, Meg” – “Atta girl, Chrissie!” – and to the bathroom, watching with some debauched satisfaction as the Christine in the dim-lit mirror grew more and more wild, glossy hair mussed, eyes black with smearing mascara, skin glistening with the heat of the club. But as sleep begins weighing down her eyelids, her thoughts eventually drift to this mysterious <em>friend </em>who’d liked her singing enough to act on it – or perhaps liked <em>her</em>, plain and simple – and it’s deliciously and irrationally satisfying, this weird sense of power she now holds, and Christine smiles against the crisp fabric of her pillow as she feels her exhausted mind shutting down at last.</p><p>Is it wrong to hope that she does meet him tomorrow night, whoever he is? She wonders who it could be… maybe someone from her high school who’d recognized her?</p><p>Maybe a talent agent, since he’d mentioned her voice!</p><p>Christine lets her imagination run wild for a moment before she sluggishly reigns it back in. No, she’s not <em>that </em>good, and what kind of professional agent would send a friend to hit on <em>her </em>friend? Nuh-uh. It was more likely than not some complete rando who thought it’d be fun to hit on the sixteen-year-old girl who’d happened to sing at open mic night. This sort of thing happened all the time in nightclubs, didn’t it?</p><p>She shudders. <em>God, I hope it isn’t some fifty-year-old creep</em>.</p><p>Ah, but it doesn’t matter – she gets to <em>sing</em> again tomorrow night, hopefully, and as she feels herself passing out she runs through his repertoire – a list she knows like the back of her hand – and quickly selects a song.</p><p>She can’t wait. It’s a gorgeous song. She’ll be sure to practice it a bit, just so she’s more prepared, and she might even run it once by Meg…</p><p>With the voice of <em>The Phantom</em> filtering through her mind, one of his gentler ballads, she slips quickly into a blissed-out sleep.</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>She’s really got Meg to thank for everything, after all.</p><p>It had been Meg Ghiry’s fourteenth birthday party that she’d walked into, fastidiously wrapped gift in one hand and a generic thank you note from her father to Mrs. Ghiry in the other, when her attention had immediately been captured by the music pulsating through the house on full volume - a voice like no other she’d ever heard caressing her ears, winding itself tightly around her heart. She’d felt drunk on the distinct thrill of discovery, of stumbling upon vast uncharted waters by the time she’d finally grabbed hold of the birthday girl standing by the speakers in the crowded living room and, with a breathless aggression very unlike her, demanded the name of the artist Meg had elected to play.</p><p>“Oh, isn’t it good?” Meg had gushed, turning her attention from the cute guy next to her in order to hand Christine a flute of sparkling apple cider-faux champagne. “He’s a new artist! Mom heard about him at her workplace and got me his debut album as an early birthday present. It’s amazing, isn’t it? What’s more - get this, Chrissie - the guy’s completely anonymous. He calls himself <em>The Phantom</em>…”</p><p>“Dad, I’m gonna go to the library again tonight. Is that okay?”</p><p>Gustave pauses before bringing the forkful of pasta to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “Sure. Just make sure to bring your phone – and don’t come home too late. They’re really hitting you hard with spring break homework, huh?”</p><p>“Yeah.” It doesn’t count as lying through her teeth if the statement posited is true, right? She <em>does</em> have a decent amount of homework – just not enough to merit staying at the library until closing hours.</p><p>She takes a sip of water.</p><p>“Mm, that’s too bad. Don’t work yourself too hard, Lotte. Tell you what – why don’t we go out for dinner tonight? Take a break from cooking?”</p><p>She almost – <em>almost </em>– chokes.</p><p>“That sounds great,” she stammers out before she realizes that this is, practically speaking, a non-issue. She can have dinner with her dad and head out for the “library” after – all she needs to do is text Meg. She relaxes, diving back into her pasta. “Should we head out after you get back from rehearsal? Or I can meet you downtown!”</p><p>“Nah, I’ll come back, drop off my stuff,” her father says, finishing off the last of his food. “Let’s do TGI Friday’s. That work? We haven’t been in a while.”</p><p>“Let’s do it,” Christine genuinely beams.</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>It’s almost nine by the time she and Meg make it to Box 5.</p><p>Karaoke night is already fully underway, judging by the guy belting out a surprisingly good rendition of “Some Nights” from the middle of the stage, and with a knowing grin Meg nudges her and heads for the bar, leaving Christine to make her way over to the queue.</p><p>“Hey girl, you were stunning last night,” the woman from last night says, wrapping an arm around Christine as they climb the stage a few minutes later, and Christine smiles politely as the scent of heavy perfume wafts over her. “What’s your name, darling?”</p><p>“I’m Christine,” she offers.</p><p>They’re on the stage now, and the lady – Charlotte, Christine had learned while waiting in line – talks into the mic as she sets it back in its stand, in front of Christine. “Let’s put our hands together again for Christine! Girl, you’re more than welcome here but you’re gonna put me out of a job if you keep coming back and knocking our socks off!”</p><p>A hot flush spreads across her face and Christine ducks her head, raising her eyes a few seconds later to find Meg, front and center in the crowd, grinning at her like a maniac. Resisting the urge to stick her tongue out, she quickly realizes that this is it – <em>she’s here, once again </em>– and after a moment of hesitation she adjusts the microphone, lowering it to accommodate her height as the butterflies in her stomach come to life.</p><p>“What’ll it be tonight?” and she turns to find the guitarist from last night, friendly blue eyes and a warm smile.</p><p>“Um, can you do ‘Mirrors’?”</p><p>“Can we do ‘Mirrors’? We sure can,” he responds playfully, and Christine can’t help but smile back, some of her nervousness dissipating into thin air. It feels a bit more like a collaboration now – the band is there for her, if the guitarist’s demeanor is any indication, and in a surge of boldness she reaches up to tap on the microphone.</p><p>She winces at the burst of feedback, but presses on anyway.</p><p>“Hi, hello!” And oh God, her voice is <em>loud</em> over the speakers - and <em>far </em>too enthusiastic - but she finds Meg’s eyes again and latches on, nothing less than pure encouragement on her friend’s face. “Um, tonight I’ll be singing ‘Mirrors’, by <em>The Phantom.</em>”</p><p>The music starts up soon after and the familiarity of the notes is like a balm of instant relief.</p><p>The range of this song is more comfortable; she feels at home in the higher octaves and she simply adores the strangeness of ‘Mirrors’, its oddness and erraticism, beautiful and sinister by turns. She sings, forgetting the crowd, forgetting everything but the music in her head as <em>The Phantom’s</em> voice echoes lowly in her ear; she remembers the first time she’d listened to this song at Meg’s, struck by the sheer range of emotions, the vast depth of <em>feeling</em> in that unbelievably evocative voice, the melancholic, trembling syllables over the steady piano accompaniment, the brief rush of all-powerful anger in grating, grinding syllables - a tortured, tormenting protest –</p><p>- and the haunting sense of calm, hopeless resignation that threatens to make tears well in her eyes, even now, as the song winds down.</p><p>Her last note, when it comes, is drowned out by a cacophony of applause. She scans the cheering crowd, giddy and breathless and beaming, and an odd thought pops into her head -</p><p>Which one among them thinks she has the “voice of an angel”?</p><p><em>Silly, Christine – don’t go</em> looking<em> for trouble!</em></p><p>Meg jumps her as soon as she’s clear of the stage, screaming adulations and handing her the drink she’s somehow miraculously managed not to spill in their embrace.</p><p>“So, little miss <em>Phantom</em>, what’re you gonna sing tomorrow night?”</p><p>Christine’s stomach drops as memories of earlier that evening come flooding back.</p><p>“Uh, can we skip tomorrow night actually?”</p><p>Meg stares at her. “Wait, what? Why?”</p><p>Christine smiles sadly. “Tomorrow – ah, well, tomorrow’s the anniversary of my mom’s death. I’d forgotten until dinner with my dad tonight and… well, I don’t think he should be alone tomorrow, you know?”</p><p>They had just placed their orders – a pecan-crusted chicken salad for Christine, a steak for her dad – and as they wait Christine settles into the familiar comfort of the restaurant, the dim lighting and souvenir-adorned walls and noisy bustle of the sports bar. They fall into easy conversation: Christine updates him on the Sibelius and how Meg’s doing, and Gustave is telling her a funny story about the New York Phil percussionist when the song playing in the background of the restaurant suddenly changes, an indie rock number that’s somewhat raucous after the mostly unintrusive music of before, and Christine opens her mouth to rib her dad about it…</p><p>…and shuts it at the look of acute sorrow on his face.</p><p>“Dad, what’s wrong?”</p><p>He starts, face clearing, looking at her almost sheepishly. “Nothing’s wrong, Lotte.”</p><p>She gives him her best mock glare. “<em>Dad.</em>”</p><p>It’s a minute before he acquiesces with a sigh, looking up at the TV and down at the placemat, anywhere but at her.</p><p>“This was one of your mother’s favorite songs.”</p><p>
  <em>Oh.</em>
</p><p>Not for the first time, she wonders just how different her dad would be if Karolina Daae were still alive.</p><p>“You guys must’ve had such different tastes,” she offers, watching her father’s face carefully. She already knows this – she’d found her mother’s old CDs a long time ago, music she knows her dad wouldn’t be caught dead listening to anymore – but sometimes she <em>wonders</em>…</p><p>“We certainly did,” Gustave responds with the ghost of a smile that Christine recognizes as his lost-in-memory smile, and a familiar twang of longing laces through her. Beyond a single, twelve-year-old memory – a long-ago road trip, the sound of radio music, her parents’ voices – she has nothing, no memories to tell her what she’s missing in her life, no reference point to tell her she should be missing anything at all.</p><p>But she <em>does</em>.</p><p>She misses her mother by missing the piece of her father that isn’t there, and with this thought she reaches over to clasp his hand in hers.</p><p>He squeezes her hand, calloused fingers scraping over skin. “I love you, Lotte.”</p><p>“Love you too, Dad.”</p><p>Christine breathes, coming back to the sound of someone singing Alicia Keys on stage - and to the sight of Meg’s concerned face. “I’m okay, Meg. I just think I should stay home tomorrow.”</p><p>“Of course - for sure. Spend tomorrow night with your dad and let me know if you guys need anything, or if you wanna talk, or <em>anything</em>, ‘kay, Chrissie?”</p><p>“Thanks, Meg. You’re the best.”</p><p>“Of course I am,” Meg snarks, and Christine barks out a laugh. “And so are you! Your voice is to die for. Voice of an angel, indeed.”</p><p>Christine stops laughing. “Wait, have you talked to that guy again? The guy from last night?”</p><p>“Nope. I did talk to a guy while waiting for drinks, though! Pretty cute, and I <em>did </em>get his number, though you know I won’t be doing anything with it…”</p><p>“How’s everyone doing tonight!”</p><p>It’s Charlotte on the stage, tall and gorgeous and<em> confident </em>in a way Christine can’t help but envy, and she can’t help but turn her attention over to Charlotte even as Meg jabbers on. “I’d like to take a moment to call out one particular guest we have with us here, tonight. His voice will <em>wow</em> you like nothing else! Trouble is, he’s a little shy, so who wants to join me in giving him a lil bit of encouragement?”</p><p>Charlotte’s looking off to stage left throughout her little speech, and Christine automatically follows her gaze.</p><p>She almost misses it at first, the outline of a figure in a blotch of shadows unilluminated by the lights of the club, but then the person <em>moves</em> and she squints, trying to take him in more clearly. It’s definitely a <em>he,</em> slouched in one of the lounge chairs, seemingly at ease, long legs stretched out haphazardly, but suddenly he’s shooting up and Christine inadvertently sucks in a breath.</p><p>Even from a distance, the guy is <em>tall.</em></p><p>Floppy black hair, black shirt, a glimpse of tattooed forearms – he’s making his way across the back of the club floor now, in the clear direction of the club entrance – and in mere seconds he’s gone, vanished, and Christine blinks with the rapidity of his exit.</p><p>“That was bizarre,” she mumbles out loud, and Meg halts her oblivious ramble to stare at her.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Looks like tonight’s not the night, folks,” Charlotte says, sounding a little disappointed but distinctly unsurprised, and her voice perks up with the next ringing announcement, enough to make the microphone screech. “That concludes karaoke night at Box 5, though, and you know what that means – it’s time to dance! Take it away, boys!” she declares, turning to the band behind her.</p><p>The music starts up right away; Christine pulls her gaze from the Box 5 entranceway to Meg, looking a little annoyed. She offers an apologetic smile. “Sorry, got distracted. You were saying?”</p><p>Meg glares at her for only a few beats longer before huffing a grin, ushering the both of them closer to the crowd congregating on the dance floor. “I was <em>saying</em>, Chrissie, that I’ve been hit on by no less than three guys tonight, and <em>damn</em> is it a good feeling.”</p><p>“Meg!”</p><p>“Don’t worry,” her friend tsks, but Christine’s already wandering back to the guy who’d left in such a hurry, practically stalking out of the club. Was he the person Charlotte was talking about? Who is he? Why did he leave so rapidly, and <em>why </em>is she still thinking about this?</p><p>She can hear Meg now. <em>Literally has nothing to do with you, Chrissie, so stop it. Curiosity killed the cat –</em></p><p><em>- and satisfaction brought it back</em>, she automatically retorts, grumbling internally.</p><p>But then said friend is grabbing her hands and pulling her into the crush of bodies on the dance floor, and for the second night in a row Christine loses herself, brushing aside thoughts of tall men and tattoos as the beat seeps deep into her bloodstream.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I’ve been spending a lot of time in the later parts of this fic and now I’ve gone and made myself utterly impatient because I just want them to meet, dammit, and for Christine to begin her ‘journey through a strange new world’…</p><p>But apologies for the delay! Gah, I want to just speed things up and get to the good parts – many of which are already written – but they have a long way to go before they get there, and I want to do the journey justice. In the meantime, enjoy Christine, Meg, and Papa Daae, and please let me know what you think! :)</p><p>(I listened to Billie Eilish singing No Time to Die (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s-ltmarIBP8) while writing the ‘Mirrors’ scene. Not exactly what I had in mind for Erik’s more provocative, angry, riff-able music (think Rosy Hours of Mazenderan-type angst), but the haunting, melancholic vibe is just about spot-on :o)</p><p>By the way, I wrote part of this chapter while watching the 25th anniversary livestream on Youtube this weekend. The first livestream back in April was what revived my interest in Phantom, and watching it once again – many phanfics later, and having started a phanfic of my own – was a wonderfully refreshing experience, and every bit as moving (read: tear-jerking) as the first time. I love this fandom so much.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapel, Pt 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For Erik’s POV and a quick refresher, go back and re-read chapter 4. Mind the new trigger warning.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>Why is she here?</p>
<p>Box 5 yawns open before her, a pulsating, disorienting crimson cavern of temptation. Someone brushes by her, bumping up behind her, muttering an insult she can vaguely hear and she automatically acquiesces, moving deeper in, scooching away from the entrance she’s been blocking in her indecision. A pass of the strobe lights and she’s blinded, but only for a moment – the lights are programmed differently tonight, casting fragments of glittering gold and silver rather than the blue, pink, violet neon of last night; they fall like rich, dazzling rain upon a sea of velvet red ornamented with clubbers, dancing and drinking and laughing, no names and no inhibitions. It’s a delectable, sultry, now familiar madness and Christine is paralyzed, suddenly distinctively out of place in her tattered T-shirt and jeans.</p>
<p>What is she doing here, on this night of all nights, and without Meg – all alone?</p>
<p>A riot of memories descends and with them, the slight urge to throw up.</p>
<p>“I miss her too, Dad! You can’t keep her from me like this!”</p>
<p>“Christine! It’s not like that, you have to understand – ”</p>
<p>“I’m going to the library. I’ll be back late.”</p>
<p> “…Okay, sweetheart, just – bring your phone.”</p>
<p>“Sure. Whatever.”</p>
<p>A slam of the door, a brisk walk down the street, hot, angry, guilty, furious tears rushing up as she sits silently on the F line – and she’s suddenly in front of Box 5, flashing her fake ID – no line, it’s almost eleven p.m. – and handing over her debit card for the cover without a second thought.</p>
<p>She knows why she’s here.</p>
<p>A day of uncharacteristic quietness; a dinner of her father’s favorite foods; sitting side by side on the couch, him with a novel and her with her homework; a snap decision later, over ice cream and brownies, to get up and play one of the CDs from her mother’s box, telling herself that she just wants to lighten the mood, knowing she wants far, far more than that –</p>
<p>- a reaction from her father, but not the one she craves. He’s all shocked, angry eyes… outraged, offended bluster. He tells her to turn it off right now, shut it down, stop that “infernal racket” – and Christine cries out, indignant, spoiling for a fight she didn’t know she wanted.</p>
<p>“Why won’t you listen to it? Why don’t you like her music – <em>my </em>music? What’s wrong with it?”</p>
<p>“I don’t have to answer that, young lady.”</p>
<p>“You never answer <em>anything</em>! I’m not a little girl anymore, I can take it! I miss her too, Dad!…”</p>
<p>No one knows she’s here, not even Meg. She can hardly believe herself.</p>
<p><em>This is so irresponsible, this is dangerous, this is just plain </em>dumb<em>…</em></p>
<p>She grasps at the red scarf she’d mindlessly grabbed in her escape from home, twisting the ends around her fingers, pulling it taut, half-strangling herself in search of some release from this awful frustration bubbling up inside, boiling under her skin –</p>
<p>Her eyes land on the stage and on Charlotte, and the band, and the blond in a black sequined dress and sky-high pumps belting out P!nk to the cheers of the crowd below.</p>
<p>Christine breathes in deep and releases it on a whoosh, savoring the now familiar scent of alcohol, perfume and sweat; she suddenly remembers the bouncer’s words at the door – “Saturday special, karaoke all night long” – and she straightens.</p>
<p>That’s right, she’d come here to sing<em>.</em></p>
<p>Squaring her shoulders with shaky, newfound determination – <em>you’ve got this, Christine, one song, one release, one rebellious triumph and you’re out – </em>she starts walking, navigating the maze of people, not stopping until she’s in the queue and she’s no longer in danger of being bowled over or yelled at… free to let her mind wander.</p>
<p>“Christine, stop that music right now. Stop it.” Harsh, offended; the lilting strains of Nirvana continue on, background music for her father’s anger. “I will <em>not</em> listen to that infernal racket.”</p>
<p>His words sting like a slap to her skin and she <em>breaks.</em> “And why not?”</p>
<p>“<em>Excuse me?”</em></p>
<p>“Why not!”</p>
<p>“Christine -”</p>
<p>“You loved her, didn’t you? You used to listen to this stuff, I know you did!”</p>
<p>“Of course I loved your mother! I loved her more than you will ever know!”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I don’t know, because you won’t talk to me.”</p>
<p>“Christine, don’t be ridiculous.”</p>
<p>“<em>You’re </em>being ridiculous! Why can I play <em>your </em>music and not hers? Why won’t you listen to it? Why don’t you like her music – <em>my </em>music?…”</p>
<p>A different voice. “…Miss, your song?…”</p>
<p>Why is she here? What is she doing?</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh God, did I really run away? Did I lie to his face and – oh, Dad…</em>
</p>
<p>“Christine, girl, do you know what you want to sing?” It’s not the guitarist this time but Charlotte, sounding kind and concerned and confused, speaking softly from behind her.</p>
<p>
  <em>What?</em>
</p>
<p>She lifts her eyes and sees a multitude of eyes staring back. The crowd – Box 5, the clubgoers, her audience. Curious… judgmental. She feels like she’s seeing them for first time.</p>
<p>
  <em>My audience!</em>
</p>
<p><em>Oh. </em>She hasn’t even thought about what to sing… but it comes to her now as she locks eyes with the guitarist, brows furrowed in clear bewilderment, waiting for her to name her choice.</p>
<p>It’s a song she’s never dared sing with or in front of Meg. It’s a terribly sad song, melancholy to the extent that Christine’s never been able to even listen to it without crying by the end of the second verse; of all his songs it’s perhaps one of her least favorites, and for some reason she wants to sing it tonight.</p>
<p>She absolutely has to.</p>
<p>
  <em>Here’s to you, Mom.</em>
</p>
<p>“I want to sing ‘Wilderness’,” she tells the guitarist, quiet but sure, sending up a silent prayer as she turns back to face the expectant crowd.</p>
<p>It hurts, her father’s rejection of the music on that CD, the only thing Christine has left of Karolina Daae. It twists itself into an angry ball of frustration and sorrow and anger, a lump deep in her gut - and she must be some sort of masochist because she revels in it, she wants this pain, this pressure crushing her from the inside out.</p>
<p>The first plaintive notes are upon her - Christine takes a breath and <em>sings</em>, and the pressure begins to float away.</p>
<p>
  <em>Child of the wilderness…</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>XXXXXX</p>
<p> </p>
<p>She doesn’t realize she’s crying until the tears are pooling in her eyes, a burning low in her throat; she closes her eyes and sings on, on, on, bowing under the weight of an awful sorrow so intense she barely has the breath for the winding syllables of <em>The Phantom’s</em> song.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>XXXXXX</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The last note comes quickly, dying on a rasp, and heavy silence presses in around her.</p>
<p>The instrumentalists have ended their part, and Christine keeps her eyes shut tight, guarding herself – against what exactly, she doesn’t know. Dimly a noisy roar enters her ears – a whistle cuts through her daze, loud and piercing, a wolf whistle? Applause…</p>
<p>She opens her eyes.</p>
<p>
  <em>Oh God oh God oh God -</em>
</p>
<p>She is crying on stage<em> - </em>vulnerable, stripped down, far too exposed, naked under the scrutiny of a million eyes –</p>
<p>
  <em>NO!</em>
</p>
<p>She needs to get out of there<em>.</em></p>
<p>She runs, flying off the stage - knocking into someone’s side, bashing her shoulder into someone’s stocky chest; she can’t see for the tears brimming in her eyes -</p>
<p>Christine’s never, ever cried for her mother before.</p>
<p>She runs.</p>
<p>She runs out onto the sidewalk, people brushing by, some shooting her weird looks that she barely registers through the blur of tears. Halting on the very edge of the curb she flags down a taxi, flailing her arms like she’s insane, feeling indescribable relief when one of the yellow cabs stops for her almost immediately.</p>
<p>She flings herself inside, shutting the car door on a hitched sob.</p>
<p>“Where to, miss?” says the taxi driver, and she pulls herself together long enough to rattle off her address before slumping in the seat, turning her head against the cool glass of the window to stare out of it, watching cars and lights and people pass by in that wondrous, illuminated blur that usually never fails to bring her peace.</p>
<p>No peace, not right now, not tonight.</p>
<p>“Hey, you okay?” The driver is looking at her in the rearview mirror curiously, a modicum of concern in his eyes, and she nods mutely, unable to open her mouth for fear the inexplicable torrent of emotion will come spilling out.</p>
<p>The only thing she wants in the world right now is to be home with her father’s arms around her.</p>
<p>She can barely comprehend it – the sudden power of that music on her, digging deep inside, making her feel things she didn’t think she could even feel.</p>
<p>How can she mourn a mother she’s never really even known?</p>
<p>She and Meg have surmised before that the person behind <em>The Phantom </em>can’t have had an easy life, unless he is some sort of genius method actor, and she’s certain of it now. How could he have, with the raw, turbulent emotion of his music, the thing right now that’s threatening to claw out her insides and rip the air from her lungs with the magnitude of its grief, even miles away from that stage?</p>
<p>What kind of life had he known, whoever he was, whoever he <em>is</em>?</p>
<p>As the taxi weaves its way down Manhattan and rolls across Triborough Bridge and into Queens, the landscape changing, the crowds fading away, she leans her forehead against the window – regulating her breathing, feeling that frantic, nervous energy seep out of her with every passing block. The strange sorrow lingers, potent and heavy, and the conviction that it will be there forever now – permanently branded on her mind, a piece of her – isn’t so much frightening as it is just a given, something she knows with complete assurance, and suddenly she wonders what she’ll tell her dad.</p>
<p>Everything, of course. The answer is everything.</p>
<p>She’s going to apologize, and she’s going to confess. She’ll explain the club, making sure to leave the blame off Meg’s shoulders. Surely he’ll understand. He might be disappointed in her, in their fight and in this unprecedented betrayal of his trust, and it’s that disappointment that she’s worried about more than anything - but he’ll get over it. She’ll practice extra hard, she’ll master that Sibelius he’s been pushing her on, she’ll make his favorite meals for a month. She’ll regain her dad’s trust - but she’ll also ask about Karolina, about the mother she never really knew, because dammit it’s been twelve years and she wants to <em>know</em>.</p>
<p>She pays the taxi driver quietly, waiting for the card transaction to go through - knowing that it’ll be another blight on her character, a hefty charge on their monthly bill – but it’s okay, she’s going to come clean, it’ll be alright.</p>
<p>It will be.</p>
<p>It <em>has </em>to be.</p>
<p>It’s with a small sense of relief, a looming sense of guilt, and a blossoming measure of resigned determination that Christine enters the brick apartment building and steps into the empty elevator, pressing the opaque button with the “7” half worn off, listening to the tinny chime of each passing floor ring loud in her ears.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>XXXXXX</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The knowledge that she’s about to tell on herself nips at her heels with every slow step she takes down the hallway, delaying the inevitable, willing her heart to stop hammering in her chest.</p>
<p>It won’t be that bad, she knows, it <em>won’t;</em> it’ll simply be a matter of expressing her remorse in such a way that it leads naturally to a conversation long overdue. She wants more than a single memory, a name, a box of CDs – she wants to know, to understand, to be with her father in his grief and in his memories, to actually know the mother she’d grieved over tonight in front of a clubful of strangers, under the hot spotlights of a stage.</p>
<p>A turn of the key in the lock and she’s pushing the door open, cursing the telltale creak, slipping inside the warm-lit apartment with the sudden desperate hope that she can get to her room without seeing her father first, hoping she’ll have time to pull herself together before they talk –</p>
<p>That hope withers away as soon as she catches sight of the figure lying on the couch. Her father, asleep.</p>
<p>The guilt roars up, threatening to swamp her entirely – he’d stayed up for her, yet again, and this time she doesn’t have the excuse of the library to hide behind. She <em>won’t</em>. She shuts the front door softly behind her and glances toward the bedroom hallway – she could go and shower, get dressed for bed, wash the evidence of her breakdown off her face, end the night as she’d originally meant to, as she’s done these past two nights – but no.</p>
<p>No more excuses.</p>
<p>Dropping her phone on the table, she walks into the living room area and kneels gently by his side, hand on his shoulder. “Dad, I’m home.”</p>
<p>Upon the lack of reaction, she huffs and grips his shoulder a bit more firmly, shaking him. He’d always been a deep sleeper. “Dad, wake up, I have to talk to you.”</p>
<p>A few hearty shakes – no reaction, nothing at all, and she goes cold all over.</p>
<p>“Dad?”</p>
<p>A frisson of panic lancing through her insides, she grabs his hand – warm to the touch, as calloused as ever, and she squeezes it, willing his eyes to open.</p>
<p>“Dad? Hello?<em> Dad, wake up!</em>”</p>
<p>His head is lolled to the side, and suddenly she realizes just how <em>still</em> he is, his face utterly slack, eyes closed, not a flicker.</p>
<p>A scream lodges in her throat.</p>
<p>“Dad - oh my God, please wake up! Dad! Please be okay, please wake up … I’m sorry! Please, I’m so sorry!<em> Daddy, please be okay, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!…”</em></p>
<p>She’s clutching his shoulders, screaming in his face, and he’s not moving, and Christine cannot breathe.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next up, a time jump…</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Labyrinth, Pt. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>(four years later)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="u">May 2021</span>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s just about ten minutes to midnight, Saturday night in the central hub of Manhattan nightlife, and Erik is busy losing his mind.</p><p>He wouldn’t have it any other way.</p><p>His hands are on someone’s hips and he’s currently licking a path from sharp collarbone to jaw, leaning down severely to do so; he can taste sweat and perfume, heady and bitter with the faint tang of salt, and any other time, any other place and he’d recoil from the sensation, grab a drink to wash the unpleasant taste away.</p><p>Right now, he’s too far gone to care.</p><p>The warm, now wet skin shudders and vibrates against the flat of his roving tongue as a groan, heady and helpless, floats into his ear; his skin is on fire and the music is pounding in his bloodstream along with the last vestiges of the crack he’d snorted maybe ten, twenty, thirty minutes ago? Shit, had it already been so long? He doesn’t have any with him, not right now, but perhaps it doesn’t matter, not when he’s touching the woman he’d locked eyes with from across the bar, the woman now grinding against him in the heated crush of the dance floor as the lights whirl over them in a flickering frenzy. He doesn’t know her, nor her him, but that’s the point, isn’t it?</p><p>He looks down at her through half-lidded eyes, his head pounding in time with the music. It’s shit music, nothing more than a loud, generic layering of electronic effects over a thudding bass beat, but it’s serving the purpose nicely right now; it’s chasing everything from his brain but the familiar want thrumming under his skin and the presence of the woman in front of him, swaying her hips to the beat as he follows, gyrating, mindless, her black-rimmed eyes wandering over his mask and flicking down to his lips as manicured hands rise to tangle in his thick, black hair, longer than he’s ever kept it before.</p><p><em>It’s not my music but it’ll do</em>, he thinks absently as he leans down to kiss her again.</p><p>She has no idea who he is, couldn’t possibly; she has no idea that less than an hour ago he’d been swaying and singing and screaming on a stage in front of thousands, euphoric, the music surrounding him, burning him, bursting out of him and the cocaine coursing through his veins making him feel so utterly, blissfully <em>alive</em>. It’s his last concert for the next few months – he won’t be performing live again until August, giving him an entire summer to whip up the next hit album that he absolutely isn’t thinking about tonight because he’s now at a club, high off the thrill of his performance as much as he is drunk on the sensation of soft, smooth skin under his palms and the scent of smoke and sweat and arousal heavy in the air, living entirely in the here and everlasting now.</p><p>It’s not an unpleasant feeling, the anonymity that comes with the mask.</p><p>The full mask, of course, not the half; she can’t possibly know who he is because everyone knows that <em>The Phantom </em>has a full skull mask for a face, eye holes set deep enough that his eyes – rather distinctive in proper lighting, Erik’s personally been told – are more often than not in shadow; a thin opening between the immobile, grinning teeth, rusty black and tarnished silver, allows his voice to escape and travel freely. It’s a heavy thing, the mask, but such is <em>The Phantom’s </em>burden - as is the task of meticulously washing it after each performance, cleansing it of the residue of an hour or more’s rampaging upon a hot lit stage as he sheds the all-black ensemble and gloves in favor of something lighter, looser, something that nevertheless is sticking to his skin now in the oppressive heat of the nightclub. But when he’s performing, when he’s singing, when he is <em>The Phantom – </em>the heavy restrictiveness of the mask falls away until there’s nothing but the music and the incessant roar of the crowd feeding his personal frenzy, his exhilaration, his favorite high in the entire world.</p><p><em>One </em>of his favorite highs in the entire world.</p><p>But it doesn’t matter right now – <em>The Phantom, </em>his performance, his highs and his demons - not for the next few hours, not tonight, not with the woman currently palming the front of his pants, almost as high and certainly as aroused as he is judging by her blown-wide pupils and the heavy pants from her lush-lipped mouth.</p><p>He can feel her hot breath on his skin and savors it like a mantra.</p><p>Heat – skin sticking on skin, strobe lights and blacklight, loud music in his ears and in his pulse, pounding as he chases that mindless abandon. Laughter all around, raucous voices and more raucous music; there’s sweat on his back and under his mask, sweat leaking from seemingly every pore in his body, and even though the chemical high’s starting to wear off, a different sort of desire continues seeping erratically into his bloodstream. It’s invigorating and familiar, and he welcomes it with a groan.</p><p>Suddenly, a vibration against his leg – and but <em>fuck</em> if it doesn’t send a wicked jolt through him in his overstimulated haze – and it happens again. Twice, three times.</p><p>He ignores it, but the woman pressed up against him doesn’t.</p><p>“You wanna take that?” she asks, patting the side of his pants, voice deliriously sultry, and he blows out a frustrated breath as he slides the phone from his pocket and turns it on, vision momentarily swimming in a colorful LCD blur.</p><p>It’s Nate - because of course it is - in the form of three text messages, back to back.</p><p>
  <em>Where the hell are you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Are you alright?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You disappeared after the concert pretty quick. You good?</em>
</p><p>The nosy little shit…</p><p>Erik quickly types out a one-handed response, getting it in one shot - rather impressive, if he does say so himself, given how well and truly hammered he is.</p><p>
  <em>Palais. Don’t wait up.</em>
</p><p>With that he powers off his phone and shoves it into his back pocket, capturing his companion’s waiting, pouting lips in a sloppy kiss, reaching up to knead one perfectly rounded breast as she shudders and keens into his mouth, wanton and ready -</p><p><em>She sounds like Lucy,</em> he thinks hazily, and the thought doesn’t jar him like it used to. Lucy was ages ago, and like a true narcissist he likes to think that in the past few years he’s somewhat perfected the art of the meaningless fuck. No repeats, no attachments. No more “accidents”. Merely a distraction, like the pharmaceuticals lining his bathroom cabinets, like those drug-fueled composing sprees that end only when he inevitably passes out days later or when Nate shows up – good, responsible Nate, a good friend, the little fucker – and forces him under the shower or into bed, or into the kitchen for some legitimate sustenance, as the case may be.</p><p>Nate. The guy’s still a flirt, but he’s a <em>reformed</em> flirt. These days he accompanies Erik to the club maybe once a week, twice a week, tops. They’d discovered the Palais together about a year ago, the hottest new club in New York at the time (still is), and Erik’s been back far more frequently than his manager has been able to keep up with. Especially now that Nate’s been seeing someone steadily for longer than two weeks - a miracle, really, a girl named Rachel that he’d met at Box 5.</p><p>Erik hasn’t been to Box 5 in more than four years.</p><p>He doesn’t think about it anymore, not at all - except in the dreams that still haunt him once in a while, dreams of a perfect voice and an euphoria he can feel deep in his soul, dreams that still twist themselves around him like a silver web, strange amalgamations of rhapsody and bone-deep <em>peace</em> that make him want to sink down and never wake again, panicking when the voice begins to fade and the darkness creeps up to overwhelm him, prickling along his spine as consciousness, hateful awareness invades his private heaven -</p><p>Waking, breathless and alone and silent, so silent, is a nightmare – <em>his </em>nightmare – but he won’t think about that, not right now, hopefully never again. Not if he can help it; not that it makes a difference.</p><p>But what had he been thinking about in the first place?</p><p>Ah yes. Lucy. The young woman currently touching him - mid-twenties by the look of her, around his age, with large eyes and red lips and light brown hair streaked through with blazes of highlighted gold - is not Lucy. But she’s hot, and she’s willing, and he’s going to combust<em> - </em></p><p>“Mask stays on,” he growls into her ear, grinding his hips against hers for good measure as she nods breathlessly, perfect red lips forming an O in a soundless gasp. <em>Fuck. </em></p><p>Strobe lights streak wildly across his eyelids as his heart pounds into his ears, blood rushing south. Her hand is on the flat plane of his torso, creeping downward once again and he slides a hand up her thigh in response, overstimulated nerves registering the silky smooth skin under his palm as another shot of desire pools deep in his groin. Someone jostles him from behind and he steps forward involuntarily, crushing the woman’s hand between their hips, and an unholy groan leaves his mouth as he wrenches for control, leaning downward.</p><p>“Let’s take this somewhere more private, hm?” he mutters into her ear, and a breathy “Yes” is all he needs before he’s maneuvering her, nudging her in front of him as he guides them out of the press of the crowd and in the direction of the back hallways that he knows are usually populated by those in search of either a quick fix or a quick fuck. Nameless, faceless people, drunk on the repetitive beat of the electronic dance music sets that blur together like an endless dream, drunk on the thrill of the mindless, senseless pleasure that hangs in the thick, smoky air of the Palais like a promise.</p><p>It’s hard work getting them through the crowd, and the hot, unyielding crush of numerous bodies is absolutely not what Erik needs. Release is what he needs, those plush red lips around his dick or a fuck against the gritty back wall; he hates this, hates the claustrophobic surge of people around him, hates the pretty girl in front of him, hates the raging emptiness and the voice in his head telling him yet again that he can fill it up, that all he needs is just that – <em>release</em>, and it’ll stave off the craving inside, twisting, writhing enough to make him nauseous if he thinks about it too much. And now thinking too much is messing with his pounding head, and he’s seeing stars every time he blinks, and his dick is still hard, and the woman is reaching back to place her hand in his and pull him forward, flashing him a lust-dazed glance that momentarily silences the part of him that is screaming for another line of crack and the rush of euphoria that makes everything alright.</p><p>If only for another night.</p><p>“Fucking dammit,” he exhales, feeling antsy and aroused and murderous all at once, casting looks of pure disdain at the hordes of human scum in their way. A giggle from the person now leading him tells him she’s heard him and he surges forward to press his lips to the back of her neck in a sloppy mimicry of a kiss; it only prolongs her laughter, somehow tinkly and sexy all at once, driving him nuts. “Hurry up,” he growls.</p><p>A tightened grip on his hand, and she’s firmly in charge now; they weave through the somewhat-thinning crowd, crossing the invisible boundary between the dance floor and the littering of tables and couches reserved for large parties and larger bank accounts. There’s a group in their way, occupying the largest couch and the surrounding floor, crowding around a table littered with a truly obscene amount of bottle service and Erik glares his frustration even as he digs his crotch against the small of his companion’s back, earning a surge of white-hot pleasure as they make their way around the dancing, swaying party.</p><p>Someone stumbles right into him, severing his grasp on her hand; seething curses on his tongue Erik turns to murder the culprit, but the guy’s already recovered and returned to the boisterous drinking game that’s evidently going on.</p><p>“Fucking bastard,” Erik snarls, but it’s swallowed up by the beat reshaping the very molecules in the air, relentless, mercilessly pounding, on and on and on…</p><p>His gaze sweeps over the other apparent members of the party as he turns back around, looking for the woman he really, really needs to fuck, right now – he doesn’t even know her name, does he? There’s a girl in a tiny golden dress that seems to be the center of attention, platinum blond hair slicked up into a tight, neat bun that shimmers under the rotating lights; a brunette is standing precariously on the couch, shaking a perfect ass in someone’s face as she tips back a shot someone else has just handed her; a split second later there’s a pair of lips on his neck and a hand palming his still-hard dick through his pants, and he almost comes right then and there, recovering enough to shoot a glance down at the woman grinning at him through half-lidded eyes of her own, messy waves of dirty blond hair framing her wildly flushed cheeks.</p><p>“Come on, I believe you have something to show me?” she teases, rubbing steadily now, and Erik smirks, hands landing on her lush hips as he propels her in the direction of the back hall, eyes scanning the crowd for a clear path forward -</p><p>- and he stops short, stunned, at the sight of long chocolate brown waves and a face a million highs haven’t been able to numb from his brain.</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">March 2017</span>
</p><p> </p><p>Erik doesn’t know what actually happens to make his brain finally register that she’s gone and her voice with her, that he’s lost her without ever discovering her grief, without ever having said a word<em>.</em></p><p>He doesn’t know when exactly he’d given up discovering that grief that had cut him to the core, when exactly he’d decided to slink home to his apartment, turning his back on a city swarming with life and people and a million myriad voices that he doesn’t give a shit about because they’ve swallowed up the only voice that matters at all to him. He only becomes aware that it’s happened, that reality, bleak and sickening has finally permeated the anxious haze of his search when he finds himself slumped on the bathroom floor one night, used needles by his feet and hydromorphone in his veins, her voice - lovely, holy, haunting - floating through his head and into his ears - faint, only a memory - <em>not enough -</em></p><p>Her voice begins to fade and he’s not thinking when he tears through his apartment for his hidden stashes, the ones Nate never suspected and he himself had all but forgotten about, the flickering cityscape beyond his high-rise windows taunting him with its uncaring beauty…</p><p>He injects poison into his veins over and over again in intervals, not caring how much time is slipping by, not caring enough to pick up his cell phone, eventually smashing it against the tile because it’s distracting him from her <em>voice</em> - not caring that it’s not real, that it’s only a hallucination, because he doesn’t give a shit about relapsing as long as he can hear <em>her voice, his angel’s voice, his Christine </em>and when he’s out of drugs some indeterminate amount of time later and the deathly silence is mocking him as much as his uncovered face is in the mirror he simply smashes it, breaking the silence, not caring about anything anymore because <em>he’s lost her, lost lost lost…</em></p><p>He’s not conscious enough to care when Nate eventually finds him on the bathroom floor, unresponsive, with bloodied glass sticking out of his lacerated hands.</p><p>He doesn’t care when the Khans, father and son - they’d left Liya at home, a small relief - stand by his bedside with twinning looks of concern and sorrow and anger, so damn near identical, it’s almost funny as the doctor lists the ingredients in the cocktail of drugs they flushed out of his system, close enough to an overdose for them to put him on suicide watch with two weeks of mandatory counseling to look forward to.</p><p>“How could you do that, Erik? How fucking dare you!” It’s Nate, and he’s frightened and angry, and he wants answers.</p><p>Erik simply lies there on the crisp hospital sheets, needles pumping fluids into his veins, and closes his eyes; he doesn’t have one.</p><p>He doesn’t care when Nate shows up at his door lugging a futon behind him and moves into his apartment indefinitely, braving Erik’s angry annoyance like the selfless friend that Nate is just to make sure Erik stays clean, stays alive.</p><p>He can’t bring himself to give a flying fuck that he’s betraying his best friend when he only begins doing it more discreetly, managing it clumsily with his bandaged hands; tiny doses of heaven when Nate’s out of the apartment or when he can’t sleep at night, either transporting himself into a dream where he can hear her voice again… snippets of song, losing its potency, hazy but <em>there</em> or else numbing himself into a mindless peace where there are no Christines and nothing left to lose.</p><p>Nothing left but a name and a voice to haunt his dreams…</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>
  <span class="u">May 2021</span>
  <span class="u"></span>
</p><p> </p><p>She’s standing right in front of him, body and name and her, her,<em> her</em>, and Erik doesn’t know what to <em>do.</em></p><p>“Christine,” he whispers, shellshocked.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yay! I’m back! And Erik’s a certified mess! </p><p>Four years have passed, and Erik has spiraled down the wholly problematic rabbit hole of drug use and physical gratification and self-loathing glossed over with the magnificent veneer of hubris… all driven, in a way, by obsession. Obsession with music, with self-abuse, with the voice of an angel he’s now half-convinced was his one shot at any sort of salvation. He’s continued his rise to stardom, sure; he’s churning out music by the album and he performs to sold-out stadiums packed with screaming fans. But this pretty much means that he’s the picture of an unhealthy, obsessive rock star, and even when he’s off-duty and wearing the half-mask rather than the full, that’s the persona he continues to feed. </p><p>And Christine… well, Christine’s all grown up, and she’s got her own fair share of baggage. Next chapter’s gonna be a doozy hehe</p><p>P.S. For the sake of simplicity and my own sanity, let’s just assume that COVID-19 is not a thing in this universe. I think we can all use a break from that. On a separate and maybe equally stressful note, if you’re in the US, hope everyone’s staying sane with election week!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Labyrinth, Pt. 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>All Erik can see is her, and all he can think is her name.</p><p>
  <em>Christine!</em>
</p><p>It’s Christine, but she’s different<em> – </em>and it takes him a moment to realize what it is, the length of her hair, the curve of her hips, a face that’s lost most of its adolescent angularity. The strobe lights dash across bare shoulders and a crop top, shimmery pink; his gaze streaks downward to a dark skirt and pale, slender legs ending in impossibly high heels, and back up to her face – <em>Christine’s </em>face, and Erik’s sure that his heart has stopped beating.</p><p>She’s right there.</p><p>She’s so<em> small</em>.</p><p>Up on that stage, four years ago, Christine had been everything – she’d been the world to him for the space of those three nights, and even after; on the stage of Box 5, she’d been the sun, moon, and stars, with a voice soaring straight to heaven, and now she’s standing less than ten feet away and by the look of it, she barely comes up to his chin.</p><p>
  <em>This cannot be real.</em>
</p><p>But she doesn’t disappear – no, she’s there, she’s standing right there, swaying on her feet, bouncing a bit to the beat, close enough to walk up to and touch - and Erik almost staggers with the revelation of it, the tangible presence of <em>her.</em></p><p>
  <em>No fucking way.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Christine, Christine…</em>
</p><p>Someone is tugging on his arm and he casts a glare in that direction, only to come face to face with the blonde he’d been well on his way to fucking only minutes ago. Flashing lights illuminate confusion in her features, red lips scrunched in a pout.</p><p>“C’mon,” she says, rising on her toes to speak it into his ear, lips brushing the shell, and the immediate rush of loathing is somehow enough to clear Erik’s head like a blast.</p><p>“Sorry, but I’ve changed my mind,” he says coldly, loudly, glancing away to make sure that the girl he cares about infinitely more in this moment is still in sight. She is - she’s turned slightly away from his direction to talk to an apparent member of the party, some generic-looking brunette with bangs, and he notices for the first time that she’s nursing a drink in one hand – a glass of something pale, almost translucent.</p><p>He wants to know what she’s drinking, what she likes, why she’s here. He wants to know everything there is to know about her.</p><p>
  <em>Christine!…</em>
</p><p>The woman is talking to him, but he doesn’t hear it, and he doesn’t care to respond; Erik only notices that she’s disappeared once her hold on his arm is gone and there is a clear path from him to Christine. There are still people pressing in all around but it doesn’t matter anymore, none of it matters because after four years Christine is <em>right there, in the flesh</em> and his legs are carrying him closer, closer, close enough to notice the silvery glitter on her cleavage and the beautiful wildness of her hair, dark errant curls draping down her back and over her shoulders.</p><p>She turns.</p><p>Her eyes meet his for the very first time, and the breath is knocked from his lungs.</p><p>“Hey,” he says, immediately cursing himself. <em>Hey.</em> Is that all he can come up with?</p><p>The girl stares up at him, and for a moment everything is frozen, his entire world narrowed to the breathtaking pinpoint of <em>her</em>.</p><p>“Hey,” she says a beat later, and a flash of the strobe lights briefly illuminates long lashes, shimmery eyeshadow, dark eyes, bright and beautiful and shining at <em>him –</em></p><p>A moment later, she giggles, her face splitting into a giddy grin, and Erik is equal parts confused and fascinated, transfixed by the expression of pure joy on her face – <em>Christine’s </em>face – as her eyes slip shut, pink lips parting to reveal a flash of white teeth tinted blue in the glow of the blacklight passing over them like a beam.</p><p>“You sound like someone I know,” she says happily, opening her eyes to gaze at him as she raises her drink to her lips, and Erik’s completely thrown off by the strangeness of the statement before it clicks. Perhaps it’s something in her tone, light and trippy even as the very timbre of it sends a thrilling shock though Erik’s system – smooth and sweet and so, so <em>wrenchingly </em>familiar, or maybe it’s the now clearly glazed look in her beautiful eyes, but as off kilter as this is – as <em>surreal </em>as this entire encounter is, as much as his heart feels like it’s jackhammering out of his too-tight chest, Erik recognizes it, experienced partaker that he is himself.</p><p>Christine is very drunk.</p><p>“Are you here for the party? Are you one of Meg’s friends?” she asks, and Erik turns, realizing that the girl at the center of the party, currently standing on a table – golden dress, platinum blond hair that has got to be dyed, caramel-toned skin – looks familiar indeed.<em> Meg. So that her friend’s name? </em></p><p>“No, I’m not,” he responds, and immediately bites his tongue. He’s failing at this, miserably; he doesn’t have a template for this, no precedent, no end goal, he’s certainly not going to try to <em>flirt</em> with her -</p><p>But she’s simply cocking her head, studying him in a completely unguarded manner, and he suddenly hopes with everything in his still somewhat drugged-up body that she won’t ask about the mask. Even in the flashing, flickering, disorienting lights around them, it’s too much to hope that she hasn’t noticed it, the unnatural smoothness of the flesh-toned silicone, the line where the skin-tight material ends. Prosthetics have come a long, long way, and this one’s quite good – he’s constantly upgrading, he can certainly afford it – but she’s so <em>close</em>, and she’s staring right at him, and he would already be entertaining graphic fantasies of strangulation if it were anyone but Christine, the girl with the golden throat and the angel’s voice.</p><p><em>His </em>angel’s voice.</p><p>
  <em>My angel.</em>
</p><p>In the past four years, he’s released five albums and a few singles. Thirty-three songs, most of them written while some degree of high. Not drunk – he’s got the bad habit of starting a hundred songs when he’s drunk and never finishing one – but he’ll compose like mad in the throes of a manic, drug-fueled daze, melodies and lyrics flowing like shards of broken glass that don’t really start to hurt until he’s sober enough to hit play and listen to what he’s recorded for himself.</p><p>It’s good music - maybe a little absurd even by his own standards, more eclectic than what he’d started out producing, but people like it and he certainly won’t look away from the income that a few multi-platinums is steadily bringing in. Nate handles all of that, the contracts and the marketing and, yes, even the bank account; but Nate has only the barest impression of what it takes, what it costs Erik every time he stays in the music room composing for days on end; the automatic prayer on his lips as he shoots up before a concert, taking the stage in a haze of glorious sensation, music vibrating throughout his entire being as he sends up a small, silent dedication in a ritual that’s become as natural and thoughtless as breathing.</p><p>A little bit of his sanity, that’s what it costs, because who in their right mind lives and breathes and prays the name of a girl he’s never even met?</p><p>And that’s the kicker, isn’t it – the fact that he’d honestly, truly thought he’d moved on, that he’d banished Box 5 to the recesses of his distant memory, that it had become no more than an occasional, haunting dream. That’s the fucking punchline because now the dream is <em>here</em> and every single fleeting thought from the forgotten depths of his madness, from the precious few moments before <em>The Phantom </em>takes the stage, is now battering at the forefront of his mind, taunting him, threatening to overwhelm him, threatening to combust -</p><p>As it is, it is all he can do to stay still, gauging Christine’s face, waiting for a reaction – <em>anything.</em></p><p>“You’re being very quiet,” she says, finally, and Erik feels like he can breathe again.</p><p>“Your name,” he rasps, and clears his throat as Christine’s brow furrows adorably. “Your name, please,” he repeats a little louder, and watches his request register on her face.</p><p>“I’m Christine,” she responds.</p><p><em>I know, </em>he wants to scream, because he does – <em>Christine </em>has haunted him for four years now<em>, four fucking years </em>and his hand is lifting of its own accord before he can stop it, hovering somewhere between her cheek and shoulder because he suddenly doesn’t know what he wants to do with it, not at all.</p><p>“Your last name, what’s your last name,” he says, suddenly desperate to know, and to his own ears it comes out like some strange cross between a demand and a plea.</p><p>Christine tilts her head. “I don’t think I’m supposed to tell you that,” she says with a little laugh, and Erik wants to shake her – <em>fuck</em> that, fuck stranger danger, fuck anything stopping him from getting her <em>full fucking name right here and now </em>–</p><p>He tries again. “Your name is Christine…?”</p><p>She giggles. “Daae.” It’s probably a very, very good thing that she’s drunk – she’s careless, apparently, and she obviously hasn’t run away screaming yet. “That’s D-A-A-E. Everyone asks me to spell it cuz it’s a weird last name. It’s Swedish, you know.”</p><p>Well. That’s very helpful.</p><p>“Christine Daae,” he rolls over his tongue, and it sounds and feels so <em>right</em>.</p><p>In the very next moment, he is jostled from behind. A pack of people is making its way around Meg’s party right next to them – well-dressed, loud, undoubtedly drunk - and one of them stumbles into Christine, slinging an arm around her shoulder to keep her and himself from toppling over. Erik wants to rip the guy’s head off.</p><p>“Sorry, beautiful,” the guy says, goofy smile morphing into a look that has Erik stepping forward to place a hand on Christine’s upper back, thrilling at the contact, shooting daggers at the son of a bitch – if he happens to bare his teeth too, well, then, all the better - as he guides Christine out of his hold and away. She says something that’s lost in the noise of the club, but he doesn’t stop until they’re standing next to one of the back walls, and then he’s stoutly ignoring the couples making out around them in favor of turning to Christine to ask her to repeat what she’s said.</p><p>Her eyes are gazing up at him, wide and curious and <em>searching</em>, and he stares back, entranced. Her lips, pink and perfect, are moving - shaping words. “I said, what’s your name?” she asks.</p><p>He doesn’t hesitate. “Erik.”</p><p>“Last name?” she presses with a little smile, and he stiffens. He’s never given his last name to anyone – not out of any need to protect his anonymity, since there is no connection between <em>The Phantom </em>and Erik Devereux anyway, but out of force of habit; and he’s self-aware enough to know that he’s nothing if not a creature of habit. Unhealthy, questionable habits, to be sure, but hey, it’s his life.</p><p>“I’ll tell you later,” he says instead, and it seems good enough for Christine. She nods.</p><p>“So, Erik without a last name, what’re you doing in the Palais?”</p><p>“I’m, uh…” Christ, how is he supposed to answer this? “It’s Saturday night. What do you think I’m doing here?”</p><p>She cocks her head and her curls tilt with it, her lips pushing up into a moue. It’s utterly adorable. “I’m not going to hook up with you.”</p><p>
  <em>What the – </em>
</p><p>He splutters. “No! No, that wasn’t my intention. I just – God, how do I explain this? I just really, <em>really</em> need to talk to you…”</p><p>He’s rambling now, a hopeless mess, but it isn’t long before Christine is halting him by stepping fully into his personal space, her eyes catching his, staring into them as if she’s now the one entranced - and Erik shuts himself up, waiting with baited breath to see what happens next.</p><p>“Has anyone ever told you you have an unbelievable voice?”</p><p>Yes – the Khans, in particular Liya, but never in those words, and never with that level of simple, cut-to-the-quick candor – and Christine doesn’t even know that he’s <em>The Phantom.</em> “Thank you?”</p><p>He doesn’t know what else to say, and Christine doesn’t either, apparently. “Um, I should probably get back,” she says simply after a lengthy silence, backing away and Erik instinctively moves to block her, screaming internally because he absolutely cannot lose sight of her, not now –</p><p>He backs her into the wall, barely stopping himself from caging her in with his arms, forcing her to stay. He seeks out her eyes instead.</p><p>
  <em>Captivating eyes…</em>
</p><p>“You don’t understand - I’ve been looking for you,” he breathes out on a rush, and God it feels cathartic. “I’ve been looking for you for <em>years</em>. I heard you sing at a karaoke night, and I tried to look for you after but you’d vanished. Where have you <em>been?”</em></p><p>“You’ve been looking for me?” Christine looks nothing short of confused, staring at him disarmingly.</p><p>Erik takes a breath, filling his lungs with warm, stale club air.</p><p>“I have,” he murmurs on an exhale, and it feels like a confession.</p><p>“Are you my angel, then?”</p><p>He blinks.</p><p><em>Well, you are mine</em>.</p><p>“What do you mean?” is what he decides to say out loud.</p><p>“My dad believed in angels,” Christine says very seriously, a furrow appearing in her brow like she’s concentrating hard – or lecturing him, rather. “I’ve got a guardian angel, ‘pparently. Everyone has. Though mine has been seriously AWOL for the past few years, the jerk.”</p><p>The last part is said with a strange level of cynicism that’s almost jarring in its lucidity, and Erik is suddenly reminded of the years between them… the time that’s passed since Box 5 is not insubstantial, and he still has no idea where she’s been, how she’s been, what she’s been doing with her life.</p><p>
  <em>She’s grown up, for one. Clearly.</em>
</p><p>“Why do you say that?” he asks.</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“Why did you say that, about your guardian angel? What happened, Christine?”</p><p>“Box 5 happened,” she says dismissively, and appears to leave it at that. “I should get back to the party -”</p><p>“Sing for me.”</p><p>And her eyes are blinking up at his, astonished, wider than he’s ever seen them, as Erik curses himself and his utter inanity throughout this entire conversation. He can’t take it back, not now, so he repeats himself.</p><p>“Sing for me, <em>please.</em>”</p><p>And like a switch has flipped, Christine’s entire demeanor is stiffening, even as drunk as she is; a veil comes down over her eyes, cold and vacant, as Erik takes a small step back, bewildered. Gone is the giddy, somewhat spacey girl he’s been talking to… the Christine standing before him is emotionless.  </p><p>“Nuh-uh, I don’t sing,” she says flatly.</p><p>For the second time in five minutes, Erik blinks, taken aback. “What?”</p><p>“I. Don’t. Sing!” she repeats, vehement, with enough ire to make Erik briefly question if this is the right Christine or not. Of course she sings – there is no version of Christine, real or drug-induced hallucination, that does not sing.</p><p>So he presses, like the idiotic moron he is. “Are you sure?”</p><p>Christine doesn’t respond, and mere seconds later Erik’s heart stutters and drops at the sight of tears on her face, gleaming like trails of gold in the spinning lights.</p><p>
  <em>Christ, what have I done?</em>
</p><p>“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he babbles, alarmed, as the girl begins to cry in earnest, her face scrunching up like she’s trying to hide it, betrayed by the wetness slipping down her cheeks and along her jaw – and then his arms are around her and she’s sobbing into his sweat-soaked shirt, entire body shuddering with the force of it, and an unbearable, unfamiliar anguish is clenching a fist around Erik’s throat, squeezing, unrelentingly tight.</p><p>“I’m so sorry, Christine,” is all he can say as he holds her slender, shuddering frame, tense and awkward, unsure what the hell is going on, only – only basking in the feel of her body against his, soft and small, only knowing that he’ll hold her forever, as long as she needs.</p><p>He is <em>so</em> out of his depth here.</p><p>“M-my fault,” the girl is sobbing into his chest, and he tilts his head down so that he can better hear. “All my fault, and <em>The Phantom’s…</em>”</p><p>
  <em>What?</em>
</p><p>“What’s that about <em>The Phantom?”</em> he asks carefully, gently, even as his heart gives a dangerous thump.</p><p>“You like <em>The Phantom </em>too?” She’s still pressed up against him, but then she’s pulling away with a look of curious excitement on her face, reaching up to wipe away her tears in a streak of wet glitter and black mascara, and Erik lets his arms drop heavily to his sides. His head is swimming, and it’s not just the high wearing off, or the overload of the club; he’s well and truly baffled.</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>If his own drunken mood swings are anything like this, he’s going to have to apologize to Nate.</p><p>“And then his later music… have you listened to his new album?”</p><p>“I have,” he says cautiously, eyeing her.</p><p>The girl sighs - blissfully, now, though her lower lip seems to be trembling still. “Oh, it broke my heart. T’was sad and awful and <em>gorgeous </em>and just… so, so sad. Have you ever had your heart broken before?”</p><p>“Yes,” Erik almost says, and then wonders why he’d say it. That long-ago summer with Lucy had been his longest relationship, if it could even be called a relationship, and he’d hardly been in love. But he forgets Lucy in favor of the swooping, warming feeling now spreading through his gut, nearly overriding his confusion, at hearing what Christine thinks of his music…</p><p>“So, so sad,” she murmurs, sniffling, and any sense of pride Erik’s harboring swiftly gives way to concern.</p><p>Christine looks like she’s about to cry. Again.</p><p>“Hey,” he says immediately, reaching for her shoulders, unable to stop himself from stroking patterns up and down her flushed skin as the electronic music crescendoes around them. “Hey, you okay?”</p><p>It’s a moment until she responds, and it’s right as the beat drops. “Yeah, yeah I just… It’s so loud in here, and my head is. Spinning. Round and round and round, and m’sorry, I know I’m rambling now…”</p><p>“We could leave,” and he’s surprised at himself, at the burst of words from his mouth and at the idea now rapidly shaping itself inside his head, pounding in time to the rhythm of the horribly intrusive new music. “We could go home, to my apartment, and talk there. It would be more comfortable, and a hell of a lot more quiet. Does that sound alright?”</p><p>“Mm, quiet,” Christine says almost dreamily, and it is everything Erik can do to prevent himself from shouting with joy, with the knowledge that he’s got her now, and that they’re going to talk, properly – outside the sweltering, chaotic world of the Palais that is infinitely less appealing now that he’s got her, the only person he’s needed to talk to so badly in his life – and now he’s guiding her alongside him as he sets his sights on the exit, the skin of her lower back incomprehensibly soft under his trembling palm, and all he can manage to think is that he’ll finally <em>know -</em></p><p>“Oh - I don’t know,” Christine murmurs, suddenly stopping in her tracks, and Erik turns to see her brow furrowing adorably. “I should - Meg. Meggie, she’ll want to know - no, s’her birthday, I should stay. I’m a good friend…”</p><p>Erik’s heart drops into his toes.</p><p>It’s all going to end. The friend – <em>Meg</em> – will definitely demand to know exactly what his intentions are with her very pretty, very inebriated, still teary-eyed friend. She’ll take one look at his mask, and her suspicions will skyrocket; he can already see her eyes narrowing, the pressed set of lips that screams suspicion like nothing else, the sound of security coming to haul him away and before he knows it he’s lifting his left hand, slipping a finger under Christine’s chin, tipping her face up so that their eyes are locked, her wide brown eyes seemingly fixated not on his mask or face, but on <em>him.</em></p><p>He’s incapable of stopping himself when he opens his mouth and begins to speak.</p><p>“Christine, come with me,” he says, slowly, deliberately, letting <em>his other voice</em> seep into every syllable, and he watches with some chaotic mixture of self-loathing and satisfaction churning in his stomach as Christine’s eyes widen infinitesimally before slipping nearly shut, a little smile playing at the corners of her lips, and Erik rages at himself internally as he continues talking, brushing against her warm right hand with his trembling own, begging her to slip her fingers into his.</p><p>“You need rest,” he says, and he can’t stop talking. <em>You bastard!…</em> “It’s far too noisy here, and I’d like to have a real conversation. You want to get out of here, you know you do. Trust me, Christine. I just want to talk. Come with me, Christine, angel…”</p><p>She takes his hand.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And in this labyrinth, where night is blindddd!...</p><p>Sorry sorry sorry this took so long! As much as I wish I could spent 100% of my time writing fanfiction, well, school is a thing. &gt;:( This chapter is on the longer-ish side, though, so hopefully that makes up for it?</p><p>Also! Random, but is anyone a fan of Mika? As in the Lebanese-British singer? If I could bodycast Erik, it might just be him - the guy’s 6’3”, black-haired, and lanky, and though I’m thinking body more so than face or style, he’s an incredible singer and performer and his smile is the damn cutest thing I’ve ever seen :) see pics at https://evangelinelark.tumblr.com/post/634522432346177536/mika-appreciation-post-and-angels-bodycast</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Labyrinth, Pt. 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Christine is standing in his apartment, teetering on her feet, and there’s something about seeing her in his home that is wildly exhilarating and calming all at once. Like a long-lost piece falling into place.</p><p>“I should get you some water. You must be thirsty…?”</p><p>“Mm, water sounds good,” Christine says, bending over to remove her heels, and Erik quickly turns away, striding into the kitchen.</p><p>That skirt of hers is <em>far</em> too short.</p><p>In the refuge of his kitchen, thankfully clean, he fills a glass with water as he simultaneously powers on his phone. Surprise, surprise – a series of new texts from Nate, assuring him that he’ll be stopping by to check on him later tomorrow, and to debrief the concert as well. Erik tosses his phone onto the counter with a clatter; he braces his hands atop the counter and breathes.</p><p><em>Christine.</em> Christine is in his living room. And she is very <em>drunk</em>.</p><p>He’s brought girls home before, of course - in varying degrees of mutual inebriation, but under very different circumstances otherwise - and always with the understanding that it would certainly be a one-time thing, that come morning they’d be walking out the door alone. This is uncharted territory, even disregarding the matter of just who exactly this girl <em>is</em>; for a moment he considers picking up his cell, dialing Nate, asking – no, <em>demanding </em>that his manager come over right away, and, and –</p><p>His forehead meets the closed cabinet door with a dull thud. <em>And what?</em></p><p>Memories of Box 5 flit rapidly through his mind: Nate’s eagerness to help, his teasing words… a bewildered concern that had quickly morphed into grim disapproval, sympathetic and <em>pitying</em> as Erik slowly lost his mind.</p><p>But of course, Nate had moved on since then. Why wouldn’t he? It hadn’t been <em>Nate </em>who had heard the voice of an angel, who had felt that music down in the marrow of his bones, who had soared when the voice soared and wept when the voice wept. It hadn’t been Nate who had gradually knit himself back together into a semblance of an existence singing, playing, producing, shooting up with the certain knowledge that he had lost something vital, something visceral - that with the disappearance of a girl named Christine had vanished a slice of hope he hadn’t known he’d craved. He hadn’t known it existed at all, and the loss of it had shattered him as deftly as he’d shattered the glass of the bathroom mirror that he still had yet to replace, <em>four years</em> later.</p><p>No, Nate had moved on, and if tonight proved anything at all, it was that Erik had not<em>.</em></p><p>No, he’s not going to call Nate.</p><p>In an instant he’s whirling, stumbling, catching himself on the countertop, reaching for rationality; it’s shocking how everything has changed, and yet nothing has changed at all. Nate’s actually – miraculously - gotten himself a college degree, that son of a bitch, and now splits his time between helping his dad out with the new security business and, for lack of a better (or more accurate) term, managing Erik. Liya is sixteen and in the thralls of junior year; on his better days, Erik will find himself cajoled into doing a math assignment or three, something he can actually help out with these days and trust himself not to fuck up. On his not-better days he contents himself with a few texts here and there because, even as the absolute moron he is, he’s self-aware enough to know to stay away lest he become a worse influence on Nate’s little sister than he already is. Nate would kill him, and Erik would kill himself. The poor girl has enough to deal with without <em>his </em>slew of pharmaceutical-based garbage heaped onto the mix.</p><p>And as for himself - he produces, composes, mixes. He sings. The Khans are his social life - it may be pathetic, but he doesn’t mind. He makes music. He’s famous, to a certain degree. He’s toured the country twice, picked up a few awards here and there, always in the guise of <em>The Phantom.</em> He’s upgraded stage masks more than a few times – and suddenly he’s wondering, again, just what Christine Daae thinks of the <em>Phantom</em>, the extent of her knowledge of his persona, her thoughts on his <em>music.</em></p><p>
  <em>Oh, it broke my heart…</em>
</p><p>Everything is the same – nothing has changed, and yet he’s feeling anticipatory, shellshocked, breathless in a way he hasn’t in years.</p><p>
  <em>Christine, Christine, Christine!</em>
</p><p>He still wants – no, <em>needs</em> to hear her sing. <em>To hear Christine sing</em>… repeating it doesn’t make it any less surreal, or less definite. It’s like a fact of his existence, a facet of his personality. Never mind that inexplicable breakdown of hers, back in the Palais; she’s not in her right mind right now, not tonight, and at any rate he’s relatively certain that he’ll <em>die</em> if he doesn’t hear her sing again, now that she’s manifested right in front of him like some sort of miracle. An unspoken dream come true.</p><p>He straightens, reaching for a glass. <em>But first, water.</em></p><p>Turning off the faucet, Erik adjusts his mask and leaves the kitchen.</p><p>He finds Christine standing in his living room, her back to him, practically pressed up against the glass of the floor-to-ceiling window. She’s left her black pumps lying by the couch; the sight of her on the tips of her toes, barefoot, is oddly endearing, and he clears his throat.</p><p>“Christine.”</p><p>She turns to face him, and he freezes in his tracks.  </p><p>Back in the car – and he had never been so grateful, so incredibly grateful to have driven from the concert venue to the Palais in his own car, that night – back in the car, during the short drive from the Palais to his apartment, weaving through the sparse late-night traffic, he’d watched her. Couldn’t resist turning to look at her, stealing glances like a thief, basking in the presence of <em>her </em>like a man half starved, dangerously distracted from the road yet unable to care. He’d watched the colors of the city illuminate her hair, flicker across her face as she leaned her temple against the glass of the window, gazing up and around with wide, glassy, black-lined but sparkling eyes as she commented on anything and everything, giddy and drowsy by turns, like an overexcited, overexerted tourist; and Erik could only watch her, snatching looks, keeping only enough presence of mind to steer and stop in the right places and to avoid running down any of the pedestrians swarming Manhattan at night – not nearly enough presence of mind to hold any real conversation, not enough to respond to her strange little comments with any more than half-assed replies and thoughtless hums of affirmation.</p><p>And <em>Christine </em>was supposed to be the one under the influence.</p><p>But the transcendence of the car ride, the colors in her hair… it flashes across his mind’s eye like a dream – ridiculous, really, it was less than fifteen minutes ago! – as he watches her now, standing barefoot in his living room…</p><p>Behind her, the Manhattan cityscape sprawls to the horizon, dark buildings and streets laced through with light… a panorama of brilliant rainbow luminosity. It surrounds Christine’s figure like a halo, speckling her dark, wavy hair, infusing the outline of her arms and shoulders with a warm glow, and it’s absolutely stunning. <em>She’s </em>stunning, and Erik steps forward hastily to offer her the glass of water before he stands there gawking like an idiot for far too long.</p><p>“Here you go,” he manages, and her murmured “thank you” is enough to send warmth flooding through his body, thrumming, elated.</p><p>“Uh, why don’t we sit down? More comfortable that way,” and he’s leading her to the largest couch, sitting down stiffly even as she curls up comfortably on the other end, resting her head on one upturned palm.</p><p>“Oh,” she says, and then she’s scooching up to remove something from within the high waistband of her skirt – it’s her cell phone, and Erik startles, suddenly on edge. Is she going to try to call the friend, Meg, or worse yet the police?</p><p>“Here, let me take that, I can charge it for you,” he offers, quickly, relieved when Christine places it in his hand with a look of languid gratitude. As luck will have it, it’s flashing on 5% battery anyway, and with long strides he hurries to plug it into a charger in the kitchen, silence it, and return to Christine as quickly as possible.</p><p>
  <em>Now what?</em>
</p><p>He can’t help but soak in every detail of the girl, now that he can see her properly – <em>finally!</em> - in the cool, unwavering light of his apartment. Her eyes are a soft, dark brown, and her face is a little flushed, but fair thrown into contrast with the streaks of mascara and glitter across her skin. It’s messy, and it’s wild, but Erik’s certainly not going to be the one to tell her to wash it off. She looks like some sort of fairy princess, with glittering skin and glimmering eyes, and if this is what it’s like to be bewitched, he’ll take it.</p><p>“So, Christine, tell me about yourself,” he starts.</p><p>The girl blinks up at him as she raises the glass, sipping at the water with pursed lips. “What do you want to know?”</p><p>But Erik is fixated on the ring on her right hand wrapped around the glass, a simple rose-gold band on her middle finger. How could he not have noticed it before?</p><p>He speaks before he thinks. “Are you <em>married</em>?”</p><p>Christine snorts, choking on the water a bit, bringing her other hand up to her mouth – but there’s mirth in the look that she levels at him, surprised yet apparently amused. “What do you think? Oh, wouldn’t it be <em>wild</em> if I were married? I’m flattered, truly – thank you for that, sir.”</p><p>No, not mirth; sarcasm, he realizes at the bite of her words, their bitter inflection.</p><p>He swallows. “Oh, I see.”</p><p>“And what about you, Erik without a last name?” Christine’s voice – drunk but breathy and gorgeous, <em>gorgeous </em>– sinks down to a stage whisper. “Are you <em>married?”</em></p><p>A harsh laugh barks out of his throat. “God, no.” <em>Perish the thought</em>.</p><p> “Why not?”</p><p>He eyes her; she’s relaxed into the couch, propped up on one elbow, a cheek smashed into her palm and her other hand playing with the rim of the glass perched precariously near the edge of the couch cushion. He briefly considers removing the glass but it’s mostly empty, there’s a rug on the floor, it wouldn’t make much of a mess.</p><p>“I don’t think I’m at a marrying age yet,” he quips offhandedly. And then, “How old are you, Christine?”</p><p>Her eyes narrow at him and for a moment, he’s on guard, berating himself – <em>Too much, Erik! Too personal, you’ve gone and fucked this up, you fool – </em>until she finally replies, with a devious look he hasn’t seen on her yet, “Twenty-one.”</p><p>“I see. Well, of course, you’re legal. You’re drunk.” <em>How tactful, Erik.</em></p><p>“Mm-hm, I guess I am, aren’t I? And how old are you, Erik without a last name?” She’s smiling now, teasing him, and Erik basks in the light of it even as he begins to mull over her previous response. Twenty-one’s not so bad; that would’ve made Christine seventeen or so back in Box 5. <em>High school – I was right. </em></p><p>He’s about to open his mouth to answer her honestly – he’s twenty-five, not much older than her at all, by any standard – but Christine beats him to it.</p><p>“No no no, lemme guess,” she drawls softly, picking up and swirling the remaining water in its glass with a swivel of one slender wrist. “You are… twenty-something. You are older than me.” She tilts her head, pouting. “But it’s hard to tell with the mask.”</p><p>Erik freezes.</p><p>Ah, but he should’ve been ready for this. He really, really should be. It’s a small miracle it’s taken her this long to mention it at all.</p><p>“I’m twenty-five, Christine,” he answers smoothly, congratulating himself for the steady delivery, his seamless gloss over the mask. His little pathetic burst of pride fizzles away in the next five, ten seconds, though, as his mind goes blank.</p><p>Erik knows he’s a shitty conversationalist. Nate makes it a point to tell him so, and often, but he’s never been more aware of it than in this moment, simply gazing into Christine’s eyes as he gropes for words.  Fuck buddies don’t require conversation, after all – he’s never <em>had </em>to do this before. He shifts uncomfortably; he runs a hand through his hair before realizing it’ll only draw attention to his face, and quickly drops it to his lap.</p><p>He’s saved, though, when Christine’s eyes suddenly go wide.</p><p>“Oh my God, you have <em>tattoos!”</em></p><p>Oddly enough, the spontaneous comment doesn’t have Erik up in arms, shying away; his tattoos are his business and no one else’s, but he finds himself keeping his arms right where they are, open to Christine’s scrutiny. It’s a better conversation topic than the mask, anyway. “I do in fact have tattoos.”</p><p>Christine eyes him. “Spider-man has tattoos,” she says plainly, and Erik can’t help but bark out a laugh.</p><p>“No, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t,” he chuckles before glancing at her. The girl looks genuinely offended.</p><p>“He does, I know it.”</p><p>He shrugs. He’s not about to argue the finer details of fictional, costumed vigilantes with someone two sheets to the wind. “Well, if you say so. I guess you can’t tell under the suit anyway.”</p><p>In the next moment, Christine yawns. “No you can’t,” she manages, before another, smaller yawn cuts off speech and she giggles, a tiny flush staining her cheeks. “I’m sorry, you wanted to talk and here I am being super rude.”</p><p>“No, not at all. Would you like to sleep?”</p><p>“I guess so. If you don’t mind…?”</p><p>There’s suddenly nothing as appealing as the thought of Christine in his bed. In a completely innocent, domestic way, of course – the girl looks exhausted.</p><p>“Not a problem at all,” he rushes to assure her. “You’re more than welcome to spend the night. You can take my bed, and I’ll see you in the morning - ”</p><p>In the morning, Christine will most definitely be sober, and maybe confused. Maybe angry. Furious. He hadn’t considered that – he’s clearly doing an <em>excellent </em>job of thinking rationally tonight – but it’ll be alright, it <em>has</em> to be; he’ll explain everything to her then. Perhaps over breakfast? Perhaps – and the long-treasured thought sends a bolt of adrenaline into his bloodstream, potent, a surge of glee – perhaps, over breakfast, he can extend her that offer he’d been considering four years ago, an offer of collaboration, just a recording studio and a pair of mikes, his music and <em>her</em>…</p><p>If the thought somehow feels slightly less exhilarating than it had back then, four years ago in Box 5, well, he doesn’t dwell on it.</p><p>A muffled <em>thud</em> brings him out of his head; the glass has fallen to the floor.</p><p>“Oh, I’m sorry,” Christine slurs, apologetic, and a quick pang of worry sets in. How could it have slipped his mind, become anything less than a priority? He’s got no idea how much she’s drunk tonight, and with her tiny frame…</p><p>“I’ll be right back,” he promises, slipping off the couch to pick up the glass and retreat to the kitchen.</p><p>When he comes back with a fresh glass of water, full to the brim, it’s to find Christine fully passed out on his couch, her head pillowed against one arm on the wide armrest, feet tucked up beneath her.</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>He lies still in the dark, racing thoughts chasing themselves across his wired brain.</p><p>It hadn’t been the last time he’d had to clean up someone’s vomit in his bathroom. It had been, however, the first time it was anyone’s but Nate’s or his own.</p><p>The more shocking part of it - he didn’t <em>mind.</em></p><p>A huff into the silence of the music room.</p><p>From the moment the decision had been made, it had been a given that she’d sleep in his bed. He only had the one, after all, and the thought of her on his couch discomfited him – Christine, falling off his couch in the middle of the night, possibly bashing her head on the steel-rimmed coffee table? <em>Never.</em> So he’d prodded her awake, lifted the glass to her lips, and then it’d been sleepy awareness transforming into frantic gestures, a look of pure alarm before he’d understood in an instant – all too familiar with it himself – and scooped her up, rushing into the bathroom and setting her down just in time.</p><p>The most shocking part of it – he’d <em>stayed.</em></p><p>He’d knelt on the tile behind her, rubbed her heaving back and murmured comforting endearments like any good, normal host; he’d cleaned her up, not with distaste but with a sympathy he reserved for Liya on the more awful days of the young Khan’s condition; he’d carried her to the bed and tucked her in, stoutly ignoring the flash of black lace underwear exposed by the rucked-up skirt, folding the covers over her, brushing an errant curl out of her face and then just <em>sat </em>with her, watching to make sure her breathing evened out, staring at her lips and at the occasional flutter of black lashes against the residue of makeup and glitter still staining her cheeks.</p><p>Two hours later, practically dozing off himself, he’d left her for the music room.</p><p>It was a wonder he’d stayed awake so long at all – the performance felt like a lifetime ago, but he <em>had</em> performed, and clubbed and gotten high too at that – but now, lying on the black-leather sofa of the music room, Erik can’t <em>sleep. </em></p><p>This is new. He rarely makes use of the sofa for anything <em>but </em>sleep. It’s a habit of his, one that Nate bemoans (but that’s nothing new), to work in the music room until the early hours of the morning and wake up in the late afternoon to find that he’s passed out on this precise black-leather sofa. There are no windows in here, no distractions, nothing but his instruments and his sound mixers and, for all intents and purposes, his <em>life – </em>but his mind is over in the next room and his heart is pounding loud with the knowledge that Christine is<em> right fucking there, </em>in his <em>apartment, </em>in the next<em> room, </em>sleeping in his <em>bed. </em></p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>He only has to think back to Box 5 to tell himself off for being ridiculous. Really! Honestly, genuinely scumbag-levels of ridiculous for even thinking about being <em>attracted </em>to Christine, when she is so much more than that – when her voice had been the most incredible thing he’d ever heard, when he’d spent <em>years </em>dreaming about that voice…</p><p>But Christine’s not just a voice anymore, and he’s far too aware of it.</p><p>Not just a voice – Christine is a beautiful, adorable enigma, and Erik is <em>baffled</em>, and the once-intense curiosity he’d had regarding the audible grief of a teenage girl four years ago doesn’t hold a candle to the burning, insatiable need to <em>know</em> her now, every crack and crevice and every dream, every memory hidden behind those glazed eyes and every hint of sarcastic sorrow hiding in the seams of her smile.</p><p>He breathes out on another frustrated huff; like the first one, it doesn’t help. <em>Christ.</em></p><p>He’s going to have to talk to her in the morning, in the far-too-sober light of day – and with that thought he reaches for his phone. It’s four in the morning, and for the first time in forever he clicks open the alarm clock app and considers, thumb stalling. He hasn’t set an alarm clock in God knows how long, has good reason not to after the deep, dark hole of his teenage years – instead, he counts on Nate to either call his phone a million times until he wakes up or come barging into his apartment to drag him out to a meeting or a concert or <em>whatever. </em></p><p>He’s far too dependent on Nate Khan, come to think of it.</p><p>But he can’t risk sleeping longer than Christine…</p><p>He sets the alarm.</p><p>
  <em>It’s a moot point if you don’t fall asleep in the first place, dumbass.</em>
</p><p>He slinks from the couch and exits the music room, careful to stay quiet as he glances over at the bundle fast asleep in his bed. Less than two minutes later, he’s back in the safety of the music room, silent throughout, materials procured.</p><p>There’s only one thing he can do.</p><p>Tossing the needle aside, Erik flops down lengthwise onto the couch, rolling his sleeve back down, and willingly succumbs to the chemical bliss already permeating his consciousness, syrupy and warm, dragging him down into the welcoming dark as the last vestiges of frantic thought sink down, swirling, now coming sluggish and slow.</p><p>
  <em>Christine – not just a voice. A body. A woman. A fascinating individual…</em>
</p><p>His thoughts are wandering, dipping and meandering out of his plummeting control, and the forbidden question finally crystallizes within the haze of pharmaceutical bliss.</p><p>
  <em>Do I love her?</em>
</p><p>Does he know what love is? He thinks he might have, had Lucy not torn his foolish heart out and trampled on it with the sound of a scream. But thoughts of that-long ago summer are rapidly supplanted by glitter, a halo of light - black heels and brown hair -</p><p>
  <em>I love her. Fuck.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Love love love.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Christine, Christine…</em>
</p><p>And, lastly, as sleep pulls him under - <em>I’ll deal with it in the morning.</em></p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Famous last words, eh? </p><p>Note on Christine - she’s very drunk here, and rather adorable, but she’s going to be a pretty different person when she’s sober. She’s had four years to make sense of her life since we’ve last seen her - enough time to move to a different city and start college, enough time to piece back together her relationship with music in the way that hurts the least, enough time to *somewhat* heal – and to develop a rather thick shell in the process. (And we’ll get to those four in-between years in this fic eventually.) She’s still the kind and lovely person we all know and love, but with one important caveat: she doesn’t take shit from anybody, and she will absolutely lash out if she feels uncomfortable or threatened. Deep down, at the root of her, however, Christine’s lost – and we’ll explore that in much greater detail as the story goes on. </p><p>Also, just to clear things up - Liya, as my version of Reza, also has a genetic disorder (though not fatal). I’m thinking a mild form of thalassemia or sickle cell anemia.</p><p>Anyway! I’m in the midst of finals (AHHH) and decided to take a break by finishing up this interlude-ish chapter. Will try to get the next chapter up as soon as the semester's over, to make up for the long wait on this one. But at any rate, I think we all know what’s coming up next ;)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Labyrinth, Pt. 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Music seeps into her consciousness, soft and sporadic; it pulls her out of sleep gently, insistently and she stretches, half-awake, relishing the brush of sheet against skin.</p><p>Moments later, the headache sets in.</p><p>“Mmph,” she groans, burying her face against the sheets, the edge of the pillow just teasing the top of her head. There’s a vaguely unfamiliar scent and she frowns, eyes closed, trying to place it, trying to figure out why her head is pounding and why something feels odd…</p><p>Her eyes fly open as she shoots up in bed.</p><p><em>Oh, dammit! </em>She squeezes her eyes shut almost immediately – she’s fallen asleep without taking her contacts out perhaps two, three times in her life, and there are very few things she hates more than the dry, scratchy burn of it, not to mention the underlying threat of infected corneas. <em>Frack</em><em>. </em>She shudders and blinks, willing her eyes to moisten enough so that she can finally look around.</p><p>She’s staring at the inside of a sunlit, open-plan apartment, and it’s not the one she shares with Meg.</p><p>“Oh,” she whispers, baffled.</p><p>
  <em>What happened last night?</em>
</p><p>She clambers out of the bed, fleetingly noting that its crisp, black sheets are infinitely smoother than the ones at home; there’s a glass of water and a packet of aspirin on the black-topped nightstand and a shaggy rug beneath her bare feet that she presses her toes into, bracing herself against the sour taste in her mouth and the sudden rush of nausea as she wills herself desperately to remember.</p><p>Four deep breaths; five. Six.</p><p>The urge to vomit temporarily quelled, she looks down.</p><p><em>Oh. </em>She’s still decked out in last night’s clothes, definitely <em>not</em> meant for the cold light of day; the crop top is far too tight and the little black skirt is bunched uncomfortably around her hips, scratching the bare skin underneath. She hurriedly adjusts it, pulling the errant zipper back up.</p><p>Meg’s party.</p><p>That’s right, Meg’s twenty-first birthday bash. At that huge club in midtown – the Palais, a name that wasn’t so pretentious after she’d gotten there and actually <em>seen </em>the place. She’d spent an hour getting ready, another hour waiting for Meg, and then another hour sipping cocktails at a small bar with Meg’s closest friends – many of them Meg’s fellow dancers from the Met - before heading to the main party at the Palais, sufficiently warm and buzzed. It’d been her first time clubbing in forever – ever since college, in fact, when Raoul had taken her to Royale Boston for their six-month anniversary.</p><p>Palais. She remembers the Palais. It’d been frenetic, and admittedly somewhat fun – a lot more fun once she’d really decided to loosen up and join in a few drinking games, throwing back shots like a champ. Getting a bit more comfortable with Meg’s gorgeous friends from the ballet; dancing and, hell, even grinding with a few guys on the dance floor. A voice…</p><p>She frowns, taking stock of her surroundings. The apartment – and what an apartment! – is one long, massive room with a high ceiling, king-sized bed on one end and dining area on the other, with an open doorway to what looks like a sleek, pristine kitchen beyond that. A spacious, sunken floor living room area lies in the middle, black couch and coffee tables and massive TV, and another Persian rug that looks like it’s the twin of the one by the bed. Her shoes from last night, elegant and glittery black, are sitting side by side in what appears to be the front entryway area, all the way by the kitchen.</p><p>The whole thing screams equal parts <em>lonely bachelor pad </em>and <em>safehouse from a spy movie</em>… the place is insanely expensive, certainly. Sleek, modern, and undeniably sophisticated. All the <em>black</em> is almost a little intimidating - but the entire wall to her right, stretching along the length of the entire apartment, is all window, with a breathtaking view of the city. She can’t imagine how many stories up she is.</p><p>Where is she, anyway?</p><p>Hazy memories are dawning on her through the fog of what must be surely a grade-A hangover - a voice, drawing her in effortlessly, swirling around in her head, somewhat familiar? Half a face and mismatched eyes? Impossible… she’d been so drunk, and she’s always been prone to fantastical dreams…</p><p>
  <em>I’m going to kill Meg! </em>
</p><p>Surely Meg knew better than to let her drink that much, after the dry spell she’d had! Christine seethes with righteous anger, wondering for the first time where her phone is -</p><p>The music’s still there.</p><p>She only realizes this when she stops in front of the half-open door, in the middle of the opaque black wall that stretches down the length of the apartment, opposite the window-wall. All she can see from this vantage point is rich paneling and packed-full shelves; the music, the unmistakable sound of a piano now that she’s actually paying attention to it, is light and experimental and – halting. It ebbs on for a few notes, a phrase, and then stops; it starts again, but ends on a different chord progression, and she realizes that whoever is in that room must be composing.</p><p>Should she walk inside and confront them? Demand to know why she’s in a stranger’s apartment? Had she – had she done the unthinkable, and gone home with one of Meg’s male friends – or worse yet, some random guy from the Palais? Where is Meg in all this?</p><p>Or she could simply leave. Track down her belongings – her purse and phone surely had to be somewhere; she could search for them and then slip out quietly, take a taxi home, give Meg a big fat piece of her mind. Never mind that it was her birthday last night –</p><p>The music has changed, and Christine’s jaw slowly slips open in shock.</p><p>Her feet are carrying her over the threshold of the doorway before she can blink.</p><p>It’s a surprisingly large room, windowless; there are weird panels on the walls, lush adornments, instruments and equipment set up all around in organized abundance, but Christine barely registers any of this because she’s transfixed by the person sitting in front of the massive black grand piano in the middle, his back to her. It’s a man, a man wearing a slate gray button-down with the sleeves rolled up, sharp, broad shoulders and a lean torso, messy black hair sticking up this way and that – and he’s playing <em>The Phantom </em>like a goddamn virtuoso, and Christine’s blown away by the casual ease of it that she knows has got speak to nothing less than an enormous amount of talent, and she’s bewildered and enthralled, and, and –</p><p>
  <em>No, is it – it can’t be – </em>
</p><p>The guy stops playing when she approaches, though he doesn't turn around.</p><p>"Good morning," comes suddenly and unexpectedly, low and melodic and a little unsure, and she freezes at the sound of it, the sophistication of her surroundings and the existence of what looks like a world-class recording studio and the oh-so-familiar album covers adorning the walls and the <em>music, oh, that music</em> all converging into one earthshaking, heart stopping, ultimately silent moment in which everything and nothing makes sense.</p><p>She <em>knows</em> that voice.</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>He’s wearing a mask.</p><p>It’s black, a contoured piece of leather-like material covering the right side of his face, and it stretches from hairline to jaw, concealing most of the nose, cutting away just above the upper lip. It’s the first thing she notices when he turns around on the bench, swiveling to reveal long legs in a pair of black skinny jeans and a snug black tank top underneath the not-buttoned button-down.</p><p>She frowns.</p><p>Why is he wearing a mask?</p><p>The second thing she notices are the tattooed forearms. The mask is a jolt, but the tattoos are a tickle, scratching at the back of her mind like a long-forgotten itch. What –</p><p>“Did you sleep well?” and she shoots her gaze up to his eyes.</p><p>She doesn’t respond. There must be a reason she’s not responding, standing there gaping like a fish out of water, and she thinks it might have something to do with the fact that he’s standing up now, and oh god he’s <em>tall</em>, and now that the guy’s standing at full height she’s vaguely noticing how slender he is beneath the broad set of his shoulders, how disconcerting it is to have him towering over her. Or perhaps it’s the timbre of his voice, rich and low and straight-up <em>gorgeous</em>, and if it weren’t for the alarm bells ringing in her head – because Phantom, Phantom, <em>Phantom </em>– she’d no doubt be falling right into it, entranced.</p><p>“Christine?”</p><p>His expression is concerned and careful, so careful, but the way he says her name - <em>her name! - </em>one would think she’d made all his dreams come true.</p><p>“Did you sleep well? How are you feeling? You were pretty out of it last night…”</p><p>Does he look familiar? He looks familiar. It’s strange that he looks familiar, given that she still can’t recall anything from last night beyond raucous music and drinking games at the Palais.</p><p>“You’re the <em>Phantom</em>,” she blurts out, and it’s not a question.</p><p>The guy’s face changes, ever so slightly, stance going rigid, and she tracks the way he clenches and unclenches his left fist, down and otherwise unmoving by his side.</p><p>Silence, loud in its intensity, and then -</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“Holy <em>shit.” </em>She claps a hand over her mouth - she feels like throwing up again but it passes, quickly. “How did I get here?”</p><p>She latches on to the way his eyes narrow, jaw working.</p><p>“We… talked last night. Don’t you - do you remember my name?”</p><p>“…No.”</p><p>“Okay, uh, it’s Erik.”</p><p>Christine nods, shaky and unmoored. For the briefest instant, she feels like shrieking and vomiting and running away all at once, and it probably shows because he – <em>The Phantom, </em>no, <em>Erik</em>, holy <em>shit </em>– is now running a hand through messy hair, visibly agitated.</p><p>“You really don’t remember any of last night?” he says, and she almost can’t read his expression now. Wariness, perhaps, with a dose of worry?</p><p>She stares at him.</p><p>“Should I?” and there’s something pooling in her gut now other than the nausea, cold and slick and anxious.</p><p>He’s staring back at her now, eyes wide, apparently as confused as she is – but he’s also squirming, and she feels dazed, processing far too much at once - this is it, this is him, this is the voice she's idolized for <em>so </em>long, and she's just woken up in his bed - the <em>Phantom’s bed</em> - <em>The Phantom! </em>- with only hazy impressions of the night before.</p><p>
  <em>Oh God.</em>
</p><p>"What did we do?" she asks, feeling every inch of her body grow cold.</p><p>He – <em>Erik </em>- tenses. "What?"</p><p>But she's suddenly scared as hell, her heart simultaneously lodged in her throat and plummeting down to her toes, and she can't stop herself from crossing her legs and trying desperately to feel for anything… <em>different</em>, horrifyingly conscious of her attire - the tiny strapless pink crop top Meg forced her into, with a tight black leather skirt shorter than anything hanging in her own closet.</p><p>A skirt with the zipper pulled almost all the way down, she recalls -</p><p>"God, this was a mistake, this isn't me, I don't<em> do</em> this," she stammers, crossing her arms in a futile attempt to hide the fact that she’s still decked out in practically nothing. A delayed reaction, to be sure, and it accomplishes absolutely nothing – where’s her sense of self-preservation? <em>Christine, you idiot!… </em></p><p>… If the slight flash of Erik’s eyes is any indication, he’s noticed.</p><p>"I don't do this," she repeats, trying desperately to remember something past the horrible pounding in her head, anything at all. "What did you do? What <em>happened</em>?"</p><p>Erik looks nothing short of baffled as he stares back at her, long seconds slipping by in which she does nothing but grow more panicked - and she’s inching back toward the doorway before his eyes seem to flood with understanding and his entire demeanor grows tense, wide-eyed, defensive.</p><p>He steps toward her and she shrinks back further. "Nothing happened, Christine, I swear -"</p><p>“How can I believe you?” She’s almost shrieking now, but she doesn’t care. “What happened last night? Why am I here?”</p><p>“Christine – ”</p><p>“I - I’m not a <em>groupie, </em>I have to get out of here, I gotta <em>go </em>- ”</p><p>“I love you,” Erik breathes, quickly, and then his eyes widen as if he’s surprised himself. “<em>I love you</em>,” he whispers again a beat later, voice hoarse and needy, adoring.</p><p>She stares at him, jaw agape. An eternity slips by and she lets it; she can’t move, and he won’t either.</p><p>“That’s impossible,” she finally manages to say.</p><p>Erik gives her a look that’s distinctly uncomfortable, somewhat offended, but overwhelmingly just… reverent, and it makes her insides wrench violently. “I’m not lying,” he says, sounding confused but firm. “Apparently you don’t remember last night, but I swear to God nothing happened. You were a little drunk, but we just – talked, that’s all. Nothing more. There’s no reason for me to be lying to you right now.”</p><p>“No, just – okay, maybe I believe you, but I mean -” she’s struggling, grasping at logic, but reason has fled and nothing even remotely makes sense right now and she eventually settles for a single, loaded word. “Why?”</p><p>Erik’s visible eyebrow shoots up, but he remains silent, lips pressed. Taking hold of her thumping heart with both hands, Christine forces out the words, somewhat proud when her voice doesn’t waver as much as her insides currently are.</p><p>“How could you love me? Or even <em>like </em>me? We don’t <em>know </em>each other.”</p><p>“I just… do,” Erik says, and winces. “No, I mean – look, I know I’m not making any sense, but I - I feel like I know you.”</p><p>“You know me?” She blinks. “Hold on, y<em>ou </em>know <em>me?”</em></p><p>“I – I don’t, not really, but… Christ.” His gaze flickers upward for a second, and then flits to the floor before settling back on her face, strangely determined. “I heard you sing four years ago. I’ve been – well, I looked for you, for a while, wasn’t even sure if you were from New York. Your voice – ” He cuts himself off, brow furrowing, and when he starts again he sounds more tentative, like he’s weighing each word in his mouth before he speaks. “For years I knew your name and nothing more, and, fuck, I – I love you.” He lifts a hand to scrub at the side of his face, easily avoiding the edge of the mask, and then simply looks at her, waiting.</p><p>Christine blinks back at him, mind blank.</p><p>“Well,” she says, eventually. Her head is still pounding, her pulse beating against her skin, and she brings a hand up to rub at her temple. <em>Damn, damn, damn. </em></p><p>
  <em>Well.</em>
</p><p>She’s still in a stranger’s apartment, except he’s no stranger, and in light of her currently enormous mental block and the staggering, <em>staggering</em> confession she doesn’t know how to parse, her brain has apparently decided to go for stubborn apathy, of all things. “Do you know where my phone is?” she asks suddenly, aiming for authoritative and missing by a mile. “I should – I need to make a call.”</p><p>Erik hesitates, clearly thrown off, before making for the open door; she steps aside and then follows him out at a healthy distance. “It ran out of battery last night, so I charged it for you,” he says as he strides toward the doorway at the furthest end of the apartment, and if there’s a slight quaver in his voice, it doesn’t show in the rigid set of his shoulders. “It’s why you stayed the night. I – we started talking, at the club, and you were pretty out of it and I didn’t know who to call. Hence, my place.”</p><p>They step into a lavish kitchen, the type of place that would make Meg swoon. Sparkling marble counters, black and gray accents, stunning view to top it all off. Some of the odds and ends, at a cursory glance, look a little familiar; Meg’s mother did always like having high-end stuff in her kitchen. For now, though, her attention is fixed on Erik, who’s unplugging her phone and turning around to offer it to her, a look of contrition and – dare she name it – something like hope plastered on his face, eyes wide and unassuming.</p><p>Then she remembers what he’d said and narrows her eyes.</p><p>“I had a wallet in my purse,” she says flatly, snatching her phone back with ungentle fingers. “With my ID and address and everything. You could’ve checked that. Where’d you put it?”</p><p>Erik frowns. “You weren’t carrying a purse last night.”</p><p>She opens her mouth to object – and snaps it shut. <em>That’s right, you booked it at the coat check at the Palais. It’s probably still there.</em></p><p>Her eyebrows fly up when she turns on her phone.</p><p>“It’s two p.m.,” she gasps, scrolling frantically down a list of notifications longer than she normally lets it get. Nine missed calls from Meg and a few more from others at the party, twenty-seven text messages – again, mostly Meg – and <em>oh no no no, </em>several concerned texts from her stand partner Filip. “Frack, I’m missing rehearsal!”</p><p>She starts backing out of the kitchen and he follows, looking somewhat like a kicked puppy. “Christine – ”</p><p>“Look, I don’t know what you want,” she says frantically, glancing away to confirm that her heels are indeed still there, sitting by the front door. “You say we just talked last night, but for all I know we could’ve – you could’ve – ” Frack, she doesn’t even want to think it. “I don’t <em>remember </em>anything, I don’t know what to think!”</p><p>Erik steps toward her. “Christine, I’d never – you were drunk and you have got to believe me, I swear – ”</p><p>“What am I supposed to think? You stole me from my best friend’s birthday party!”</p><p>“I - ” and Christine almost, <em>almost </em>relents at the sight of the guilt on his face, an expression of mingled frustration and self-loathing so intense she almost wants to walk back her words. <em>Almost</em>, because if anything, it’s confirmation that he has, in fact, kidnapped her from a public area and that’s just not okay.</p><p>“I’m leaving,” she says, vaguely wondering if she should be announcing her imminent departure in front of the creepy kidnapper – infamous celebrity – childhood idol - <em>argh </em>rather than simply booking it for the door, recovered phone in hand. “Don’t contact me.”</p><p>He reaches out and snags her arm as soon as she decides to march around him and she yelps, clutching her phone to her chest, heart skyrocketing into her throat. “Hey, let go!”</p><p>“Please don’t run away again,” he begs, and she’d stop to ponder his words and tone of voice if it were not for the righteous fury running through her veins, as good as adrenaline. “Please.”</p><p>Yanking her arm back, she squares her shoulders, shoving down the panic inside – she’s still a defenseless girl facing down a guy with at least a foot on her and a good sixty, maybe seventy pounds, standing right in her path to the front door. She sets her jaw, though – she’s not, she’s not a <em>coward.</em> “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”</p><p>“Because I – ” she can practically hear the aborted <em>I love you</em>, and oh God her nausea is back full force, mixing queasily with the lingering disbelief and with the righteous anger still flooding her system, and Erik stammers ineffectually before settling for a desperate “Please, just trust me.”</p><p>“Oh, yeah?” she snaps. “Why don’t you take off your mask?”</p><p>It’s like flipping a switch.</p><p>The frantic desperation – pleading, <em>imploring </em>– leaks from his expression like water going down a drain; in its place is a burning hardness she hasn’t seen from him yet and instinct has her taking a healthy step back, reaching through the sudden nervousness for the buzzing threads of her indignation.</p><p>“No,” Erik says, and it sounds like a decree, weighty and final. “You can’t ask that.”</p><p>“And why not?” she retorts automatically – <em>stupid, stupid Christine! You idiot, just </em>leave <em>already! </em>– as she stands her ground, feeling belligerent. “You want me to trust you? News flash, I can’t do that with you literally hiding half your face!”</p><p>“Yes, yes you can.” Erik barks out a laugh, high and harsh. “You have to. I’m not taking this off.”</p><p>She scowls, taking a step toward the door. “I’m not talking to you if you’re hiding behind a mask.”</p><p>“You will,” and the utter vehemence of those words freezes her in her tracks; indignant fury bubbles up quickly in retaliation and Christine whirls on him, thinking nothing now of getting into his space.</p><p>“Come on,” she yells, and the look he’s throwing her now only infuriates her, all daggers and disbelief and growing scorn. “I already know your name, I won’t – I don’t know – <em>rat you out </em>or anything, what’s the big deal? Am I a complete joke to you? This isn’t funny! I didn’t ask to wake up here! But you say you love me, and I’m like what the actual <em>hell</em>, and you won’t even show me your <em>face</em> – ”</p><p>A flash of movement – it’s her hand, reaching up and grabbing; a split second later, there is warm leather in her hand, and she’s staring at his full face, and there is a raging fire growing in his eyes.</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p><em>The Phantom’s </em>stage mask is the guy’s signature. It’s his stage persona, his public face and the symbol splashed across his album covers, merchandise, concert memorabilia. It had been a popular topic of discussion in her and Meg’s teenage years every time it had been updated – “there’s more silver in this one, do you think he made it more regal to fit his new album title?” “Chrissie, it’s a skull mask, stop overanalyzing everything!” – and despite the morbidity of it, she’d never considered it gaudy or over-the-top. He went by <em>The Phantom</em>, after all, and when his music was that good, she supposed it didn’t matter too much what kind of mask he wore. Plenty of famous singers wore masks – for the edginess or the anonymity, or perhaps both. No big deal. She and Meg might’ve been curious what he looked like underneath, but never to the extent that some of his craziest fans did, arguing obsessively over whether <em>The Phantom </em>was young or old, hot or not, a hundred combinations of facial features up for online consideration.</p><p>Christine had never, ever in a million years thought that the mask might be hiding anything other than an ordinary human face.</p><p>“<em>Damn it!”</em></p><p>He’s spinning away and she’s staggering backward, the sight of his face burned into her retinas, his mask still clutched in her hand.</p><p>“Fuck it, you just couldn’t leave it alone, you little <em>bitch</em>!”</p><p>He’s ranting and raving and pacing and it’s <em>terrifying </em>and then suddenly he’s gone, slamming the door of the music room behind him, and as soon as Christine remembers to move she’s dropping the mask and darting for the front door, snatching the straps of her shoes up with one hand; she races out into the empty hallway and straight to the single elevator, pressing the <em>down </em>button over and over again, glancing back to make sure the door to his apartment stays closed.</p><p>It does.</p><p>She exits the elevator to the sight of an unbelievably opulent, lofty-ceilinged lobby; there are plush couches and potted trees galore, and the concierge – bellhop? doorman? – only tips his head at her politely, offering no remark on her bare feet, and there are other people in the lobby – that’s a security guard right there, she registers – but she heads straight for the doors, not stopping until she’s outside in the hustle and bustle of an afternoon crowd, noise washing over her like a wave.</p><p>Christine breathes.</p><p>This is midtown, she realizes belatedly; slipping her heels on, she begins walking in a daze, and in no time at all Central Park is staring her in the face. <em>Oh, </em>she thinks, numb, and then reality hits. <em>Oh!</em></p><p>She turns on her phone; her eyes snag and skip over Meg’s messages after she’s turned the brightness up high enough to see -</p><p>
  <em>Chrissie pick up ur phone</em>
</p><p>
  <em>PICK UP UR PHONE</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Where r u??? Ava said she saw u leave with some guy, r u okay?? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Chrissie i’m fucking worried pls pls call me</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Ava says u looked fine with it but girl pls be okay</em>
</p><p>She shoots a quick text to Meg – she’s okay, she’s fine, she’ll be home soon – and another to Filip, citing a sudden case of the flu and asking him to make her excuses to Rico, and then she tucks her phone into the waistband of her skirt and wraps her arms around herself and just… walks, ignoring the one or two catcallers that inevitably crop up. She’ll call an Uber at some point – thank God for rideshare apps, no wallet necessary – but for now, she will walk, and she will <em>process.</em></p><p>
  <em>Holy fucking shit.</em>
</p><p>She’s met <em>The Phantom</em>, and his name is <em>Erik,</em> and when the tears finally begin sliding down her face, she lets them.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Erik: I love you!<br/>Christine: …Okay then. My phone, pls?</p><p>This was “I remember there was mist…” transplanted into a swanky high-rise apartment in NY (https://evangelinelark.tumblr.com/post/639551880558788608/angels-chapter-11-finally-up), with an Erik appropriately out of his depth and a Christine appropriately freaked out. And very hungover.</p><p>Anyway, Happy New Year! It’s been nearly a month since the last update, and I’ll try my best not to let it happen again. Though I have to say, reading others’ fics does wonders when your writer’s block consists mainly of trying to figure out how the heck to write dialogue and emotion in a way that’s somewhat believable. Go figure.</p><p>Also! There’s a reason Christine begins to cry, other than the shock and craziness of the whole morning finally wearing off. More on that later. I’ve missed you all, would love to hear your thoughts &lt;3 anyone catch the (admittedly, very tiny) Leroux reference?</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Labyrinth, Pt. 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>Nate walks into Erik’s apartment and stops short at what looks like a tornado disaster sight, paper and debris strewn across the hardwood floor, shattered glass in the dining area and a broken lamp tangled up in its cord; even the bed on the far end of the room is in a state of torn-up disarray, and in the middle of it all Erik is lounging cross-legged on the apparently untouched couch, utterly still, eyes fixed on his laptop screen with what appears to be nothing less than single-minded intent.</p><p>“What,” Nate says.</p><p>Erik doesn’t look up but he does begin – or resume? – typing away, a rapid-fire clattering of the keys as the door swings shut behind a gobsmacked Nate. When Erik finally speaks, it’s with a distinct tone of disinterest. “Nate. Make yourself at home. Don’t step on the vase.”</p><p>“Erik, what…” Nate sidesteps a spray of shattered ceramic and approaches the sofa slowly, disbelievingly, taking in the damage. “What the fuck happened in here?”</p><p>The laptop keys click away, unceasing. “<em>Erik.”</em></p><p>“I’ll clean it up,” Erik says with a distracted wave of his hand before he returns it to the keyboard, clattering away before punching at the mouse pad with one pointed finger, the <em>click</em> echoing as the screen changes. Nate’s behind the sofa now so he can see just what Erik’s looking at, the ‘Musicians’ section of a local chamber orchestra website replete with headshots of clear-skinned, smiling instrumentalists – and Nate’s so, so lost. “Erik,” he repeats, circling the couch to face him – and, oh, the steel-framed coffee table is just a steel frame now, the glass sheet that used to be its surface lying cracked in pieces on the floor. That’s going to need replacing as well, then. Shit. “Erik, what <em>happened</em>?”</p><p>All at once, Erik’s façade shatters; he snaps the laptop shut with a <em>bang</em> that makes Nate wince and breaks his ramrod-straight posture to slump forward, elbows on his knees and hands squeezing into fists.</p><p>“I’m a fucking idiot, that’s what happened,” he growls.</p><p>“Well, we all knew that already,” Nate responds automatically before giving his head a little shake – Christ, he just wants to know what’s <em>going on</em>, is that such an impossible request? “Erik, buddy, as the person who orders you new furniture whenever you lose it and go all <em>Hulk smash</em>, I <em>demand </em>you tell - ” but oh, he’s got a good look at Erik’s face now, and it’s such a horrifying mix of loathing and despondency and - inexplicably, most terrifyingly of all – sheer <em>determination </em>that he immediately backpedals, plopping down faux-casually on the other end of the couch and reaching over to tap his index finger on the closed laptop. “Mind if I take a look?”</p><p>Erik immediately shifts the device away, curling in on it almost protectively, but it seems to be a knee-jerk reaction more than anything else and Nate is relieved when he slides it over after only a few seconds of hesitation. “Thanks.”</p><p>He flips it open, types in Erik’s password – <em>monkeyhouse3 </em>- and then, lo and behold, he’s looking at the faces of the violin section of the Chamber Orchestra of New York. “So, uh, whatcha looking at here?”</p><p>He steals a glance at Erik, who looks almost constipated, his lips pressed firmly together before he sucks in a sharp breath. “Second from the right,” he barks out, and Nate looks back at the screen and at the picture of a young woman with dark eyes and wavy brown hair and a lovely smile, a violin cradled between her right arm and side. <em>Christine Daae, </em>the text reads, and utterly confused Nate clicks on the name and ends up with a short biography in a pop-up window.</p><p>“Second violin, joined late last year, New York native,” Erik rattles off before Nate’s even begun to read. The rest of the biography is impressive – a number of awards and prestigious music festivals, youth orchestra concertmaster, Juilliard pre-college and two years of a dual degree program with Berklee and BU before a leave of absence – but thirty seconds later he still has no idea why he’s looking at this and what it has to do with the demolished state of Erik’s apartment and of Erik himself, if at all.</p><p>He looks up helplessly. “Erik, what - ”</p><p>“Look at her – look at her name. <em>Think</em>, Nate,” and Nate would be more offended if it weren’t for the surprising lack of condescension in Erik’s voice – no, his friend is staring at him with an open face and pleading eyes, so earnest it hurts.</p><p>What’s a guy supposed to do with that?</p><p>Nate blows out a breath, purses his lips.</p><p>“Christine Daae,” he reads out loud, and he could swear Erik actually <em>twitches</em> beside him. “Daae. Interesting surname. She’s pretty. What, you have a crush or something? Lemme guess, you partied with her last night after the concert – fuck you for going AWOL, by the way - and stumbled back to absolutely wreck your place with mind-blowing sex…”</p><p>He glances at the screen again and it hits him all at once – that hair, that <em>name</em> – and he whirls around to face Erik fully across from him on the couch, eyes wide. “Hold up - Christine? <em>That </em>Christine? <em>Your </em>Christine?”</p><p>“The one and only,” Erik says, sounding and looking like a wreck – Christ, now that Nate’s actually, truly looking at him, he looks like he came straight from last night’s concert at Irving Plaza, sweaty and jittery and exhausted – but another quick look at the girl on the screen and Nate’s busy flashing back to the Box 5 incident, the week from hell, and the Erik who had all but killed himself over a teenage girl he’d never even met.</p><p>To say that Nate’s dumbstruck right now is an understatement. He’s <em>flabbergasted.</em></p><p>“O-<em>kay</em>, I’m gonna need you to back up and <em>explain</em>,” he says slowly, shifting to sit back against the couch.</p><p>Thankfully, Erik starts talking - he recaps the events of the past fifteen or so hours in pretty short order, getting up to walk frenetically around the room, punctuated sporadically by Nate chewing him out for the sheer stupidity of it all – “What the everloving fuck possessed you to actually <em>leave </em>with her?” and, upon the news that she’d actually been here in Erik’s apartment, “Oh my God, you’ve utterly lost it” and “If she presses charges I’m gonna kill you, I am going to fucking <em>gut </em>you and you’d fully deserve it” –</p><p>But it ends pretty uneventfully, by Erik’s account, with Christine simply waking up and leaving earlier that afternoon. “Please tell me you trashed the place <em>after </em>she left,” Nate says, deadpan, somewhat relieved, and gets the stinkeye in response. “Okay, okay, good. But, like, what did she <em>say</em>?”</p><p>“She wasn’t… happy.” Erik spits the word out like it’s toxic. “She wanted – she said - ”</p><p>Erik sounds like he’s choking on it and Nate decides to take pity on him. Whatever had happened, it’s almost two, three hours after the fact and the police aren’t here yet, which is more reassuring to him right now than it probably should be.  </p><p>“Hey, man, it’s fine,” he says. His eyes wander over the laptop - the next logical thing occurs to him then, and – “You gonna, uh, look for her? Singer, violinist like that – girl’s got talent.”</p><p>Wait, shit. <em>Shit. </em>There’s a <em>reason </em>he hasn’t so much as <em>mentioned </em>a collaboration in the past four years, and he just trampled all over that like a fucking <em>elephant – </em>not to mention that what he’d actually meant to say was something more along the lines of, <em>time to move on!</em> But Erik only looks thoughtful, a near-unreadable expression on his face.</p><p>“She does, doesn’t she?”</p><p>“Yeah, man. You - you sure know how to pick ‘em.” Erik does not laugh at this.</p><p>“I shouldn’t see her again,” and then Erik clears his throat, uncharacteristically, and repeats, sounding solemn, “I should leave her well the fuck alone,” and well, what’s Nate supposed to say to <em>that?</em></p><p>“What was she like,” Nate asks quietly instead, and watches the smallest of smiles – a real, genuine smile, a “thoughtful” smile like Liya calls it – steal across Erik’s face.</p><p>“She was <em>everything</em>,” and then Erik turns abruptly away and starts picking up the mess of scattered pokers by the fireplace, and Nate can’t get another word out of him. He joins him in shuffling around, picking things up, goes to look for a broom at some point and ends up having to call the lobby for one instead because Erik generally doesn’t clean his own place; he has a cleaning service come in to do it.</p><p>They work in companionable silence for a little while before Nate’s phone blares.</p><p>“I’m stuck in meetings the rest of today and Dad’s having me onboard a newbie tomorrow at eight,” he tells Erik after hanging up, rapidly thinking it through. “So I better not go out tonight. But onboarding should be over in a few hours, tops, and then I’ll pick you up, yeah? We’ll go out and grab lunch, talk this through. Get you out of your head. Bailey’s sound good?”</p><p>But the next morning, there’s not one, but <em>three</em> new guys to break in, the other two being buddies of the first one, all three of them veterans in need of a steady, well-paying job. Nate can’t fault his dad for being a good guy – and it’s private security, after all; ex-military is pretty much run of the mill - but he wishes he’d at least given him a little notice<em>.</em> As it is, he’s tied up in training and then paperwork for onboarding until four in the afternoon, and then he’s picking Liya up from her school so he can accompany her to the hospital for her check-in, and then <em>that </em>takes longer than it usually does and, oh, he’d basically forgotten about agreeing to take on the night shift for one of the guys – a former Marine who’s worked for them for years now, taking the night off for his fifth wedding anniversary. He ends up shooting a text to Erik before stepping into the shower around eight – <em>sorry, done with liya but have to prep for night gig – subbing</em> <em>for Walker</em>, and there’s a response waiting for him by the time he’s dried off and getting dressed ten minutes later.</p><p><em>All good, </em>the text reads. <em>Finished cleaning up. Need a new coffee table – no steel this time, make it wood or something.</em></p><p><em>You got it,</em> Nate texts back, and puts a mental pin in it for later. He’s not the one picking out Erik’s furniture, of course – he got too much pride, and not nearly enough taste, but he’s fine with acting as the liaison between Erik’s interior decorating needs and Amanda from the talent management agency who’s taken it upon herself to be personally responsible for upholding the style of Erik’s swanky-ass apartment as of last year. It’s not a bad setup, he thinks as he follows up with another text.</p><p>
  <em>We’ll do Bailey’s tomorrow, talk it out?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You know what, I think I’m good. Overreacted. Need some time to myself</em>
</p><p>Nate feels his eyes narrow. Erik needing time to himself is rarely a good thing; he does create all his music this way, in total isolation, but he also shoots up and gets dangerously high out of his mind in total isolation. Back in the weeks immediately following the Box 5 incident, Nate could barely leave Erik alone at all – and it’s that, the fact that this is <em>that </em>Christine that has Nate immediately knowing he won’t be leaving Erik alone at all.</p><p>God, what this Christine had done to his friend. Fucking hell…</p><p>It’d been fun, at first, as wrong as it is to fathom thinking of it that way now. Power of hindsight, and all that. <em>Fun.</em> It’d been a fun little dig at Erik until it wasn’t; it had been the potential of something new and good and exciting, and then the next thing he knew he’d been following a crazed Erik around Manhattan like a hapless <em>handler </em>before walking in one day to find Erik passed out on the bathroom floor, hands all sliced up and so completely unresponsive that for the space of one terrible, forever minute Nate was convinced he was <em>gone.</em></p><p>And it turns out that, after all this time, the girl of Erik’s (forbidden, obsessive, almost definitely unhealthy) dreams is a classical violinist playing chamber music right here in New York. Huh.</p><p>The next day, he hops on the Q line and shows up at Erik’s place as soon as his night shift is over, forgoing breakfast and sleep. Upon his second yell of “Erik!” the man himself stumbles blearily out of the music room, hair all mussed, clearly just having woken up.</p><p>“The fuck, Nate, why’re you here so goddamn <em>early?</em>” but he lets Nate whip up some breakfast for the both of them and stick around long enough to ascertain that he isn’t craving, or suicidal, or anything that would merit Nate breathing down his neck for the rest of the day.</p><p>It goes pretty much like that the next few times – Nate walks in to find Erik working in the music room, or at his laptop, and sticks around under the pretense of hanging out for a few hours; when he’s not there at all, a quick text always confirms that he’s running an errand or simply out and about. Erik’s a wanderer and Nate knows this, would never dream of encroaching upon it; long story short, his friend is perfectly fine, and it isn’t long before he’s starting to feel awkward about keeping such a close eye on him.</p><p>The fifth or so time he pops in like that, Erik’s sitting calmly at the dining table with his laptop in front of him and – Nate does a double take – <em>a bowl of fruit </em>to the side. Green grapes, to be exact. Erik’s eyebrow is raised, inviting comment as he pops a grape into his mouth, and when Nate tries to explain his own presence – “How’s the new album going? Anything stick yet?” and then, a bit later, “What, can’t a guy check in on his best bud?” – Erik simply snorts and turns back to whatever he was doing on the laptop, remarking, “I know what you’re doing, Khan. I don’t need a babysitter, so fuck off.”</p><p>“You really do, man,” Nate retorts, but it’s with less conviction than usual – he’s seen Erik high or coming down from it plenty of times, and right now Erik really does look fine. He’s eating <em>grapes</em>, after all. If he <em>is</em> actively doing drugs, it’s under control enough for Nate to not be too concerned – and he’s eating <em>grapes, </em>he’s eating <em>fresh fruit </em>of his own volition, a minor miracle - so he obliges when Erik flips him the bird, and beats it.</p><p>He mostly leaves Erik alone after that.</p><p>It’s not hard to, in the end: the security firm keeps him busy enough on a day-to-day basis, as it usually does when he’s not busy being Erik’s agent during album release and concert season – this right now, this is off time from that front and his chance to help his dad out as much as he can. Rachel graduates from NYU at the end of May and he’s there for all of it, the fancy graduation ceremony he’d never gotten to experience himself and the slew of parties afterward, not nearly as fancy but a lot more fun – Rachel’s a happy, horny drunk and hey, as a happy, horny drunk himself, he sure as hell isn’t gonna complain. He makes sure to text Erik at least every other day anyway to check in and Erik responds dutifully, if a little begrudgingly, but he seems to be doing alright – busy songwriting, if Nate were to hazard a guess – and by the beginning of June Nate’s looking back every so often and feeling vaguely relieved that whatever this Christine had meant to his friend four years ago, her reappearance hasn’t been enough to drive Erik out of control all over again and, worst case scenario, trigger a relapse.</p><p><em>Take that, Christine Daae! </em>Nate cheers, and almost immediately takes it back.</p><p>He knows it’s unbelievably unfair. He knows nothing about the girl, after all – at least, nothing beyond the fact that she’s an outstanding vocalist, and apparently a grade-A violinist to boot – but he does know Erik, and he thinks he has a sense of what had happened all those years ago. A person doesn’t lose their shit over a lost collaboration, after all, and especially not Erik Devereaux, independent to a fault, which means that it had never been just about the collaboration. It had been something <em>more</em>, and as caustic as Erik tends to be, Nate knows just how deep his feelings run. It’s not even about still waters – Erik’s turbulent as all hell, and it doesn’t take being his best and only real friend to see that.</p><p>And then, of course, there’s the way Erik had talked about running into her at the Palais. That was where being Erik’s best friend <em>had</em> come in handy; he can read Erik pretty well, well enough to have seen the physical attraction there.</p><p>But the following three weeks are Christine-free and uneventful and Nate thinks that perhaps the spell has broken, <em>finally</em>, even if he can’t get Erik’s quiet “She was <em>everything</em>” completely out of his mind; she hadn’t sung at all this time, according to Erik, and maybe the shock of seeing and experiencing her up close and personal – just another girl, another clubber, another human being – had been enough to knock her off Erik’s pedestal.</p><p>Nate hopes.</p><p>It’s a shock, then, what happens after Erik texts him one day in mid-June, three weeks after the “Palais Incident,” as Nate’s taken to calling it in his head, and invites him over; Nate goes around six in the evening, thinking Erik’s going to drop a new album on him, and is unpleasantly caught off guard when Erik opens the door before Nate can turn the key, looking haggard, exhausted.</p><p>“Come in,” he says, turning around and heading for the living room area, leaving it up to Nate to shut the door.</p><p>“Erik? You good? You look awful.”</p><p>All Erik does is sigh, and then flop down not on the couch but on the armchair – but no sooner has his butt hit the seat than he is springing up and meandering over to the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing out at the city like a pensive dramatic.  </p><p>Nate sees it, though, as he himself takes a seat on the couch: the rigid lines of tension in his back war with the general air of exhaustion Erik is wearing.</p><p>“Erik?”</p><p>“I’m gonna talk, Nate, and you’re not gonna interrupt me,” Erik says, swinging around to lean his back against the glass; outside, it’s still sunny, but it’s with the waning light of late afternoon and the impending promise of summertime dusk. “I want your advice on something.”</p><p><em>Advice. Okay.</em> Nate nods because, well, what else would he do?</p><p>In retrospect, he’s going to wish he’d had a little more time for mental prep, though.</p><p>“You know I looked her up, obviously,” says Erik, tense and relaxed and tired all at once. “I found her on her orchestra’s website, read her bio, all that. You were there for that. But you don’t know what happened after. I found the address of the place they rehearse, and I went and watched her – them – play.”</p><p>“Erik,” Nate starts, because he doesn’t like where this is going, but Erik talks right over him.</p><p>“Shut up and let me finish. I kept going, you know –” no, Nate <em>doesn’t </em>know – “and I went to all her rehearsals for a week straight. She’s really good, Nate, really, really good. They’re playing Haydn and Sibelius. They’ve got a concert at the end of the month; I’ve got tickets. And I needed to know more <em>about </em>her so I followed her out of rehearsal one day and – did you know she works at a Starbucks, Nate? At a goddamn Starbucks? All the way out in <em>Brooklyn</em>? Of course you didn’t. She works there pretty much all day on the days she doesn’t have rehearsal. And, before you ask, no I haven’t <em>talked to her</em>, dude, are you kidding? What would I say? Ignoring the fact that it’s a Starbucks – shit coffee, we both know that – I can’t just stroll in and corner her where she works. She knows who I am, you know, who I <em>really am</em>. And dude I’ve tried just walking up to her after work but – shit, <em>shit</em>, what the <em>fuck</em> am I supposed to say? ‘Hey, so I’ve been obsessed with your voice for four fucking years now, can you sing something for me?’ And I don’t even know if that’s what I – fuck, Nate, she’s such a <em>sweetheart</em>, she’s a barista who gets everyone’s names right and smiles at absolutely fucking everyone – who the fuck <em>does</em> that? – and she’s a good person, she’s got a roommate, she’s got her friends, she just turned twenty-one – who would’ve thought she’d <em>lie </em>to me, back there in the Palais? – and, and she lives in a fucking brownstone in fucking <em>Brooklyn</em>, of all places, what the <em>fuck</em> am I supposed to do with any of that?”</p><p>“Erik,” Nate says. “What the fuck.”</p><p>Erik peels away from the window to walk closer. “Nate -”</p><p>“These past few weeks, I thought you were fine. You were fine. But you’ve been secretly <em>following her around</em> instead, you’ve been <em>lying </em>to me,” and oh, Nate’s <em>really pissed off</em> now<em>.</em></p><p>Erik’s expression turns beseeching. “Nate, I –”</p><p>“You’ve been following her around,” Nate repeats, because Erik has –</p><p>Erik has -</p><p>Erik has gotten high in hole-in-the-ground dives and trashed world-class hotel rooms. Erik has gotten into fights in back alleys. Erik has consumed enough alcohol to come within a hair’s breadth of copulating in public and getting slammed with public indecency. (Hell, Erik has <em>served time,</em> three years in the state penitentiary for things they’ve never spoken about, not once, not ever, though of course – thanks to his father - Nate <em>knows</em>.)</p><p>Nate is extraordinarily used to all these things because he’s typically the one picking up the pieces, cleaning up the aftermath. It’s been his self-appointed duty since the day Nadir Khan came home dragging along a skinny white boy with black hair tied back in a short ponytail, a massive chip on his shoulder, a staggering amount of unrealized talent, and literally nowhere else to go but with the kindly officer who’d helped get his sentence cut short, and Nate’s never actually regretted it.</p><p>It’s gained him his best friend, his pseudo-brother (and a really sweet source of income from his cut of royalties and concert revenue, on top of what Erik’s already paying him, that doesn’t hurt at <em>all</em>).</p><p>However, Erik has never, to the best of Nate’s knowledge, <em>stalked </em>anyone before, much less the girl from the Box 5 incident, the infamous Christine. Christine <em>Daae</em>, he reminds himself; they know a heck of a lot more about her now than they did four years ago.</p><p>Hell, from the sound of it, Erik’s practically got her <em>life</em> memorized.</p><p>Nate groans and puts his head in his hands.</p><p>“Erik, you <em>fucker.</em>”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I have a paper due in two days and yet I decided to come here and post a new chapter of Angels instead. You’re welcome. </p><p>It's good to be back :)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Labyrinth, Pt. 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Needless to say, Nate is upset.</p><p>Erik watches warily as his friend clutches at his hair, then looks up and starts yelling from his place perched on the edge of the couch.</p><p>“You’ve been stalking her? For a fucking <em>month?! </em>Erik, my dad could have you arrested!”</p><p>“Three weeks, and your dad retired last year -”</p><p>“Not the point!”</p><p>“It’s not like that, I haven’t been <em>stalking </em>her,” Erik says defensively. He starts pacing, restless - he’s tired, craving a high like all hell, and at his wit’s end - and he doesn’t need Nate’s self-righteous judgement layered on top of everything right now. He needs his <em>advice</em>.</p><p>But count on Nate to fixate on the <em>semantics </em>of it all.</p><p>“I haven’t broken into her <em>house</em> or anything, I haven’t… I don’t mean her any harm, dude, the fuck! I’m just… waiting for the best opportunity to talk to her. I don’t know what to <em>do</em>. I just want to – dammit, I just want to start over again.”</p><p>“Start over?” Nate utters, looking wild as he rises from the couch. “Erik, this is the girl you lost your <em>shit</em> over four years ago, when you didn’t know anything about her but her fucking <em>name</em>! You might as well have slapped big, shiny dedications to her on every single one of your albums since then!”</p><p>And there it is – everything he’s watched Nate bite back over the past few years, even if his eyes have betrayed him; Nate Khan can’t keep a poker face to save his life. Doesn’t mean Erik has to like it, though. “Nate, if you don’t shut your fucking mouth - ”</p><p>“You’ll pitch me out your 42nd floor window, yeah, yeah.” Nate runs a hand over his face. “Look, I get it. I know you don’t have the best track record with girls - neither of us do, if I’m being brutally honest. I’m all for taking it slow, especially with someone you’re practically obsess - you <em>care </em>about,” he amends quickly at Erik’s death glare, “but, and as your friend I say this with the best of intentions, do you really think tracking her around New York is the best way to communicate that you’re actually a pretty decent guy who didn’t mean to scare the shit out of her by bringing her to your apartment, drunk out of her mind?”</p><p>“Maybe that’s the problem,” Erik says, feeling dark. “I’m not a decent guy.”</p><p>“Erik -”</p><p>“She saw my face, Nate.”</p><p>The sight of Nate’s jaw snapping shut fills him with a sickening sense of gratification. “... And?” Nate eventually ventures, more calmly.</p><p>“What do you mean, <em>and</em>? What do you fucking think? She flipped out, I lost my shit. She left, like any sane person would do.”</p><p>It really was that simple; it had happened in an instant.</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>One moment, Christine is shouting at him, turbulent fury in her eyes – and the next, the fury rapidly drains out as a very different type of panic slips in, her mouth dropping open oh-so-slightly as her jaw slackens, eyes blowing wide open as she backs away.</p><p>All of this happens in the span of a single second, because the brush of air against the right side of his face tells Erik everything he needs to know – as does the sight of his mask, clutched in her hand – and in the span of a single heartbeat, he’s seeing red.</p><p>“Damn it!”</p><p>He whirls away, clapping a hand over his face, a hundred curses seething on his tongue.</p><p>“Fuck it, you just couldn’t leave it alone, you little <em>bitch</em>!”</p><p>Rage, thundering rage wracks through him (<em>how dare she</em>), but it’s spiked through with an ancient, bone-deep fear – he sees the wide eyes of the middle-schoolers who’d torn off his first prosthetic mask with grappling hands, taking some of the skin with it, and years later the angry pitying disgust in the courtroom and the wide eyes of the officials at the penitentiary as he – all of fifteen and bleakly alone, bitter at the entire world, <em>terrified </em>- wielded his naked face like a weapon; he sees the gamut of ugly human emotions from the inmates who’d either wanted to pity him, beat him, or fuck him until it’d become such a problem that they let him have his mask. He sees Lucy, fuckin’ <em>Lucy</em>, with her fingers on his mask and dazed terror in her eyes, and she is screaming in his face before the sound cuts off like her throat’s been slit and she’s <em>gone</em>. That was the last time someone had taken his mask off and it had ended in shock and hurt and a pain that lasted longer than the brief summer they’d had together. Lucy – well, he’d let Lucy closer than anyone in the space of those few heated months, and her reaction had stung enough that he’d shied away from girls with black hair for months afterward and gone flat out celibate for nearly a year.</p><p>The second to last time someone had taken his mask off like that, just torn it off, it had ended in blood under his nails and the inside of a prison cell and three years of his life stuck in a box, just like that, and he can’t go back, he can’t, he <em>can’t –</em></p><p>He comes back to himself sometime later; he’s standing frozen in the middle of the music room, every nerve in his body pulled tight, his right hand pressed hot and wet against his face – those are tears, he realizes belatedly upon pulling his hand away, plus what little sweat the right side of his face is able to generate - and in front of him, the door is closed, and he opens it to the sight of his empty apartment, silent; the pair of black heels is gone when he swings around to look, vanished like it had never been there in the first place.</p><p>His heart stops, for a moment.</p><p>He’ll die, he will actually <em>die </em>if he sees her disappear a second time, lost to the city, lost to <em>him</em>.</p><p>“Oh God,” he says out loud, for the sake of breaking the terrible silence. “Oh my God.”</p><p>A terrible panic clutches him and Erik’s head pounds, fierce and sharp – he spies the mask on the floor and something violent shudders through him and he loses it, for a little while.</p><p>He tears his way through the apartment, snarling at shadows of Christine. The glass is still on the coffee table and he kicks at it, sends his foot smashing through multiple layers of glass, obliterating the table entirely. He paces and prowls, grabbing at lampstands, chairs, his disheveled hair; his sleeping area still bears her marks, smudges of what must be lipstick and mascara on the pillowcase – his bed still fucking <em>smells</em> like her and he damn near upturns it, tangling his fists in the heavy blankets in want of something to squeeze and tear and <em>break</em>.</p><p>He’s in the middle of contemplating taking a poker to the window when it ends with a thought, miraculous in its simplicity; he drops the poker, stunned. Then he’s tempted to pick it up again and bash his own head in for good measure, because <em>come on</em> - he’s got to be the biggest idiot in New York.</p><p>After all, how many <em>Christine Daae’s</em> can there be?</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>Cue a frantic Google search, and Nate showing up, and then weeks of deflection and omission on that front while simultaneously falling further down the rabbit hole that is Christine Daae, virtuoso violinist, coffee-drinker, flannel-loverand yet a mystery of a human being, a question mark wrapped up in the guise of a <em>very good girl.</em></p><p>After Nate had left, he’d found out plenty about her online. He’d marveled at her musical record, especially from when she’d apparently lived in Boston – first violin in the Boston Youth Symphony Orchestra was probably no joke - and then he’d wondered at her current position, on an apparent leave of absence from college, playing second fiddle in a random, two-time chamber orchestra. <em>What gives?</em></p><p>He’d found out that her father, Gustave Daae of the New York Phil, had passed away suddenly in March 2017, and suddenly Erik’s heart had been pounding and he’d been double-checking the dates on every bio and article he’d found on her so far; ten minutes later he hadn’t known what to make of the knowledge that it was only after her father’s death that Christine had ended up in Boston, successfully auditioning for the regional orchestra before making it to state, eventually ditching that for first violin in BYSO, when every article prior to that specific, <em>disastrous</em> month had placed her firmly in the New York classical music scene for youth.</p><p>He’d wanted to know what had happened<em>, </em>if Christine’s father had died before or after Box 5, if Christine had left New York because of it, why she is back in the city now. Why there is no trace of her singing online, not on YouTube, not even so much as a mention of it in any of her orchestra bios.</p><p>He’d wanted to know so fucking <em>badly.</em></p><p>Suddenly, it hadn’t been enough – he’d dug around until he’d found a Facebook account with her name on it, mostly-unused by the looks of it, with only a few status updates from Boston University and a few generic pictures of some boardwalk and seashore posted years ago. He’d found an Instagram account than <em>seemed </em>to be her, private and therefore inaccessible; it hadn’t been long before he’d been swiveling back to the chamber orchestra site, checking the rehearsal times, looking at the address, and heading out the door with his skin-toned day-mask on his face and a baseball cap set low over his forehead.</p><p>It had been the easiest thing in the world to find <em>her</em> again.</p><p>He’d sat in on one of her chamber orchestra rehearsals, and then another, and then all of them for a full week, his eyes glued on her the entire time – entire three-hour rehearsals, twice a day on Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays. After the evening Thursday rehearsal he’d trailed her through the subway system to her home in Brooklyn, then found out about the Starbucks the very next day; he hadn’t dared actually order anything but he’d followed her inside a Trader Joe’s after her shift instead, practically hiding in the produce aisle, face hidden under the rim of his cap as he’d surreptitiously watched her – seriously, who took that long to pick a bunch of bananas? – and, for the sake of allaying suspicion, he had rummaged through and ended up purchasing a box of green grapes, a bag of apples.</p><p>He’d thought about <em>her</em> that entire weekend as he ate grapes and munched on Honeycrisps, trying to stave off the itching beginnings of withdrawal. As it had turned out, the fever-pitched <em>need </em>to find Christine again, the irresistible <em>magnet</em> pulling him to her had been enough to override the almost equally clawing desire to get blissed out of his mind.</p><p>Who would’ve thought?</p><p>He makes a trip to Brooklyn the following Sunday and ends up watching maybe about a dozen people arrive at the brownstone for a birthday party – Christine’s, her twenty-first based on the birthday in her Facebook profile – and somehow it takes until now, loitering artfully behind a lamp-post across the street, spotting the glittery lettering on the gift bag one person shows up with, for the little devious look in Christine’s eye when she’d told him her age that night to make a lot more sense.</p><p><em>The little </em>minx<em>. </em></p><p>He’d gone home as soon as the inflow of people had stopped, thinking all throughout the subway ride about the fake ID she must therefore own – true to form, if Box 5 had been any indicator; he should’ve known, really – and trying to imagine the party in the brownstone and wanting, wanting, <em>wanting</em>.</p><p>But no rest for the wicked; the next day, he’d shown up at rehearsal once again, sitting all the way in the back with his collar flipped up and his cap pulled low over his eyes, and then during their ten-minute break he’d explored the building a bit and discovered how to access the catwalk up above the stage, and wasn’t <em>that </em>a find. Despite having to look down from above, it had been a closer view than the back of the auditorium had afforded him – and he’d gotten it all, her quirks, her posture, her interactions with her stand partner – a man named Filip who liked to make her laugh, yet seemed nothing short of respectful, and Erik was – jealous, yes he was, not of Filip per se but of the easy camaraderie they seemed to have between them, fellow musicians communing over a tricky passage in Haydn or the beauty of the Sibelius.</p><p>(He hasn’t picked up a violin in a little while but he <em>could</em>, he <em>knows </em>he’s still capable of it, that could be <em>him…)</em></p><p>That’s not to say his gut doesn’t twist when he thinks about it, about the sight of their heads bowed together as they annotated the sheet music, her soft, tinkling laughter as Filip tells her jokes during their break -</p><p>“What do I <em>do</em>,” he finds himself asking, twisting inside with the need to do <em>something, anything at all,</em> and he watches as Nate’s eyes narrow in on his clenching fists.</p><p>“You’re not high, are you?” and Erik barks out a harsh laugh.</p><p>“Are you kidding? I haven’t been high in <em>weeks.</em> I didn’t want to – screw this up.”</p><p>Nate is visibly surprised, even if he tries to hide it. “Well. That explains why you look like shit.”</p><p>“Thanks a lot, man. Appreciate that.”</p><p>“So what’re you gonna do?</p><p>Erik huffs, hard, and swallows his pride yet again. “I was hoping <em>you’d </em>tell <em>me</em>.”</p><p>Because it’s been three weeks of watching Christine and not talking to her and he feels vaguely like he’s losing his mind here, caught in some terrible form of stasis – not to mention how much withdrawal <em>sucks </em>- and he’d genuinely, honestly hoped that bringing Nate into it would yield some relief. Even if it’s a brash remark, some quip about how whipped Erik is acting; he can take that, would welcome it, even, after weeks inside his own head.</p><p>Nate just looks at him and asks, bluntly, “Do you love her?”</p><p>“Fuck off,” Erik snarls, surprised, advice and hopes be damned, and turns around before he can see the look of understanding flash across his friend’s face.</p><p>
  <em>Damn it, Nate!</em>
</p><p>“I’m leaving, lock up after me,” and he’s grabbing for his jacket and high-tailing it out of the apartment. He won’t be forced to stay and deal with Nate’s probing questions – not when they cut deep, not like <em>this</em> - and, besides, if he sets a good pace, he knows he can make it in time to see Christine leave from her five to eight o’clock rehearsal on Lexington Ave.</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>Nate’s right, of course, and it’s that knowledge that has him slowing in his steps as the sun sets, shedding orange beams between the skyscrapers of midtown, reflecting golden off the glass.</p><p>His breath catches – he can’t help it, he really can’t – when Christine emerges from the grand stone building she rehearses in, adjusting her violin and purse over one shoulder as she waves goodbye to Filip and to several other orchestra members, all splitting off in different directions. Her hair is tied back and she’s wearing leggings and a tank top with an open-red flannel over it, with the sleeves rolled up; it reminds him, randomly, of that scruffy red scarf from Box 5. He trails after her in the thinning evening crowd and enters the subway station seconds after she does, keeping to the side.</p><p>When she gets on the 6 train, he does too, settling into a seat on the far end of the car.</p><p>He knows the route by heart at this point, of course: six stops on the 6 train from 33<sup>rd</sup> Street to Union Square, and then the 4 train to Fulton Street, and then the A train into the heart of Brooklyn, followed by a fifteen-minute walk to the lovely little brownstone in which Christine resides with Meg, the very same friend from Box 5 and the Palais – a ballet dancer with the Met company, according to Google, and an accomplished one at that. The train rumbles beneath him, slowing into and speeding out of stops as people board and disembark, milling around him. He tunes them out and for the millionth time Erik contemplates either leaving Christine alone forever or finally approaching her, though to say what, he doesn’t have a clue. He quickly discards the former option – he’s a wreck of a human being and decidedly not good for anyone, but the idea of simply never seeing Christine again makes him frankly want to die.</p><p>He knows so much about her now, and yet he feels like he knows nothing at all…</p><p>He makes the switches, never losing sight of Christine; they pull into Nostrand Ave and he disembarks, following her up the steps into Brooklyn and to the sight of the almost-dark sky.</p><p>The drone of the subway and the shrieking noises of the departing train are replaced with the honking of cars, someone yelling further up the street – the sounds of the city at night. He wants to stop, turn around, let Christine live her life; he wants to put an end to it but it’s already impossible, and he knows this deep in his bones as he follows her, haunting her through the streets of Brooklyn like a ghost – like a Phantom.</p><p>
  <em>Fuck.</em>
</p><p>He growls, picking up the pace down the empty street before stuttering to a halt, stopping himself from rounding the next corner. It wouldn’t do to slip up and have her see him now, after all, not when he’s screaming at himself – in his own voice, and in Nate’s too, hilariously - to leave her alone, not before he’s figured out what to <em>do.</em></p><p>The sounds of a scuffle from around the corner and a sharp “Hey!” in her voice, <em>Christine’s </em>voice, followed by a cut-off cry, decide it for him.</p><p> </p><p>XXXXXX</p><p> </p><p>He sprints around the corner without a second thought, eyes darting over the empty avenue, following the sounds into an adjacent alleyway.</p><p>“Hey,” he yells, sharp, and doesn’t have time to think about the look of sheer shock on Christine’s face before he’s got his hands on the guy’s shoulders and is spinning him around, slugging him in the jaw and tearing the purse out of his hands. The guy keels over and Erik bends down to snarl in his face, “<em>Beat it</em>.”</p><p>Gratifyingly, he does – Erik’s blood is boiling, at this two-time mugger who’d dared to attack <em>Christine</em>, of all people, and Erik watches him stumble out of the alleyway before turning around. “Here.”</p><p>He holds out the purse, and oh, God, it’s been literal <em>weeks </em>since he’s stood this close to her, close enough to notice all over again how small she is, the waves in her hair, the little red-patch hickey on the corner of her jaw. Her eyes are dark and gleaming and huge and right now, they look downright murderous.</p><p>“I had that handled,” Christine says with force, and something in him <em>sings.</em></p><p>“Of course you did,” he says, reflexively, and she snatches her purse from his hand in response, slinging it quickly over her shoulder as she backs away.</p><p>“I did, I took krav maga in college. Nothing in here beyond a couple of coupons, anyway,” she says, and then her expression abruptly shutters, just as Erik’s gaze stops and locks on her cheek, scraped raw and red even in the fading light.</p><p>Suddenly, he’s torn between wanting to track the mugger down again and <em>break </em>him, and alternatively wanting nothing more than to step up and cradle her face in his hands, touching her cheek, smoothing the pain away <em>-</em></p><p>“Did he do this to you?” he asks, moving forward, letting something soft and dangerous creep into his voice without thinking about the ramifications of it, nothing beyond the twisting-snarling-<em>screaming </em>visceral and deep-rooted, clawing in his gut. That is, until Christine is scrambling away from his outstretched hand, eyes wide with shock and distrust and – and something that looks almost like <em>fear</em>, and Erik jolts backward immediately.</p><p>“He pushed me against the wall. But I had it <em>handled</em>,” she throws at him, her loud voice and bold stance belying the flash of almost-fear in her eyes, and he opens his mouth and then clamps it shut again, helpless. He stares at her; this is Christine’s territory, now, and he awaits her verdict, nervous as the day he stood trial in front of a steel-eyed judge and a panel of whispers.</p><p>When she speaks, though, it’s not what he’s expecting to hear. “You called me a <em>bitch</em>.”</p><p><em>…Fuck. </em>He purses his lips, the entire encounter in his living room stinging at the forefront of his memory. “You caught me off guard. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”</p><p>Christine nods, considering, and then - “You changed your mask.”</p><p>He tenses; he forces himself to relax.</p><p>“I did. I don’t wear the other one out.”</p><p>“It looks – it’s almost unnoticeable.” She sounds curious now.</p><p>“Well, you certainly didn’t notice it until I <em>saved </em>you from -” Erik says, and then stops.</p><p>His words sink in and Christine’s eyes widen as Erik curses himself to hell and back.</p><p>“Wait, you’ve been <em>following</em> me?”</p><p>“I… I wanted to talk to you,” he says, starting to panic. “Apologize,” he adds as a hasty afterthought, though he’s not quite making things any better, if the look on Christine’s face is anything to go by – and shit, oh shit, she’s darting glances at the entrance to the alleyway and to the street, and he forces himself to take a healthy two steps back to give her space though <em>oh God please don’t run, don’t run.</em></p><p>“Apologize,” she repeats, disbelievingly, shifting on her feet. Her voice is soft. “That was in May, that was… twenty-two days ago. You’ve been following me all this time?”</p><p>It sounds impossibly more incriminating coming from Christine rather than from Nate, and Erik winces. Christine seems to take this as the confirmation that it is.</p><p>“I don’t know if I should be flattered or creeped out,” she says weakly, sounding incredulous. “You’re a star, and you’ve been stalking <em>me</em>. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?”</p><p>An awkward pause. He’s staring down at her feet by this point, at her worn black Converse - ready to move and catch her if she decides to run, ready to force himself to stay put if she does. He doesn’t know which he would choose. He doesn’t know.</p><p>“This is insane. I - I don’t know you, like at <em>all. </em>I mean, I know your music but I don’t know <em>you</em> and then I wake up at your place and now I find out you’ve been <em>stalking</em> me and – I should be calling the police now, shouldn’t I?”</p><p>He snaps his head up - “Please don’t do that” – but Christine is talking, breathing heavier now, gesturing with her hands as her eyes search his, beseechingly.</p><p>“If this is about… what you said, about you - <em>loving </em>me, which is <em>totally absurd - </em>I can’t deal with that, I don’t know how to <em>begin</em> to deal with that -”</p><p>“I’m not asking you to,” he says hurriedly, heart in his throat. “It’s not about that, I just – look, all I want is to talk. Just to talk, have an actual conversation, start ov - get to know each other. And you can leave or cut it off anytime, I promise.”</p><p>“You want to <em>talk to me.</em>”</p><p>He catches her gaze and hopes she can see the sincerity in his as he says, with honest, terrible gravity, “Yes.”</p><p>Christine appears to ponder this, gnawing seriously on her lower lip, and Erik waits. Forces himself to wait, forces himself to be patient; he’s close to imploding when she finally says,</p><p>“It’s not – it’s not a <em>date</em>. I’m not saying yes to a date.”</p><p>“It’s not a date,” he concurs hastily. “It’s just… whatever you want it to be. A meeting. Between musicians. We can talk about… music.”</p><p>
  <em>How eloquent.</em>
</p><p>Christine gives him a look that makes him squirm, anxiety doing somersaults in his gut, before she acquiesces with a small nod – thank God<em>, thank God</em>. “A meeting. Shall we do coffee, then?”</p><p>“Coffee’s good,” he says immediately. Hatred of Starbucks aside, he doesn’t drink coffee all that much these days, dislikes the stuff - bad for the throat, and caffeine doesn’t really do anything for him anyhow - but hey, he’ll take what he can get. “Coffee’s great. Thank you. Let me give you my number?”</p><p>It’s abundantly clear from the slight twist of her lip and the furrow of her brow that she’s probably questioning her sanity, the entire chain of events in the past ten minutes, and the wisdom of letting him set up contact. Either that, or she doesn’t know what he’s thanking her <em>for</em>.</p><p>To be fair, he’s not too sure himself. <em>Thank you for not calling the police. Thank you for suggesting coffee. Thank you for giving me a chance.</em></p><p>She’s got her phone in hand now and, up close and personal, Erik can see that it’s one of those clear phone cases, with a sleeve on the back for credit cards and such – but it’s littered with tiny stickers in the open spaces, some of which are self-explanatory enough, some of which make him stare. A mini treble clef, a tiny New Jersey. “BU” in fire-engine red. Tom and Jerry, <em>Curious George</em>; a pair of, inexplicably, <em>devil horns.</em></p><p>“Can I have your name? For the contact?”</p><p>He tears his gaze off her phone case. “Erik. With a <em>k</em>.”</p><p>“Last name?”</p><p>“Just Erik.” She eyes him, but thankfully turns her attention back to her phone before clicking it off and sliding it into her back pocket.</p><p>“My turn,” he says at the lack of the customary text, sliding his own phone out.</p><p>“Uh, no you don’t."</p><p>"Sorry?"</p><p>"I’m not giving you my number until we sit down, have a nice chat over coffee, and I decide that I’m okay with giving my number to someone who’s <em>stalked</em> me for the past three weeks," Christine explains matter-of-factly, surprisingly bold, looking for all intents and purposes like a negotiator holding all the cards.</p><p>Which she <em>is</em>, he thinks, and finds that he’s not all that annoyed by it.</p><p>He nods. “Okay.”</p><p>She nods, too, parroting his motion. “Okay, then. Thursday. 1pm at – ” she rattles off the name of a small French café in the neighborhood of her rehearsal place, a café he’s passed several times at this point, and he commits it to memory like it’s vital information. <em>Which it is.</em></p><p>“Sounds good.” He pauses. “And if you stand me up and don’t show at all?”</p><p>She stares him in the eye, lifting her chin a bit in a clear challenge. “Well, I guess you just have to trust me. Which is more than I can say for how I feel about you.”</p><p>Feeling more than a little guilty (he knows where she <em>lives,</em> after all), Erik tilts his head in acquiescence.</p><p>“Fair enough.”</p><p>Now that all’s said and done, he’s suddenly acutely aware of their surroundings, the lengthened shadows cast into the alleyway by streetlamps that had flickered on some time ago, the sky black overhead; there’s a slight breeze now, a cool edge to the summer heat. Christine shuffles her feet and minutely adjusts the violin strap from where it’s biting into the curve of her chest. Erik lowers his gaze.</p><p>They stand around awkwardly, for a bit.</p><p>This is as far from that one drunken night in the Palais and then the sober, awful morning after as Erik can imagine; this is the two of them having had an actual<em> talk</em>, in some random back alleyway in <em>Brooklyn </em>of all places, and while things are still not ideal – he doesn’t know what ideal <em>is </em>– it’s… nice. Somehow. Peaceful, even if strained, and he realizes that for the first time he’s got Christine exactly where he wants her, and she’s not running away.</p><p>He wants <em>more.</em></p><p>“I’ll see you on Thursday,” Christine says quickly, suddenly, and then she’s walking away, violin over her shoulder, turning out of the alley to hurry down the deserted avenue as night falls heavy around them.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Full disclosure, I really did see one of those Instagram writing prompts (Character A radiating protective angst examines Character B’s bloody face) and think, ah, what better way for our characters to reunite? Cheesy as hell, I know, but I couldn’t resist. </p><p>And now they’re on for coffee!</p><p>(For reference, I’m anticipating perhaps 5 more chapters of this section of the story, Labyrinth; 2 chapters of Intoxication; 6 chapters of Little Taste of Heaven; 4 chapters of Wishing; 3 chapters of Lotte; 3 chapters of Strange Duet. All are working titles and everything is tentative, though much of the later chapters are already written; but just thought I’d make it clear that this story is by no means close to finished - we’ve a while to go :))</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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